The Country Keeper
by words2liveby
Summary: "The truth," England said, "is that we-meaning myself and the other countries-aren't very good at looking after ourselves. We need someone to do it for us, and I believe that that someone could be you."
1. A Chance Encounter

Elle Vasquez, twenty years old and abroad for the first time in her life, exited London's National Gallery with a smile. In that moment, she believed that she'd seen enough beautiful artwork to satisfy her for a lifetime. A glance at her wristwatch told her that she'd finished her tour of the Gallery earlier than expected; she didn't need to be anywhere for another two hours. Pleased to have some spare time, Elle aimed herself toward Trafalgar Square and pulled out her map of London. Perhaps there was time to visit St. Paul's Cathedral before dinner.

A sudden bump to the shoulder threw Elle off balance and caused her to drop the map. Frowning, she looked at the man who'd run into her. She expected an apology, but he didn't stop or even slow his pace. He muttered something that might've been a request for forgiveness and waved a hand vaguely in her direction, but did not turn around. Elle hadn't even seen his face. She watched him for a moment, taking in his rumpled tweed suit and disheveled blonde hair, before deciding that he had probably had a rough day at work and his behavior should be excused.

Shaking her head, Elle bent to retrieve her map. She found a rolled up newspaper labeled _The International Gazette_ lying next to it. The paper was about a week old, if the date printed in the upper right-hand corner was to be trusted, and had clearly been read multiple times: notes had been scrawled in all available spaces and the print had been smudged where fingers had touched it. Elle realized that the newspaper probably belonged to the man who had run into her. She sighed and made a quick decision. She'd look around the Square and, if she found him, she'd return the paper. If she didn't find him, the paper would be thrown away. Satisfied, Elle stuffed the map into her purse, picked up _The International Gazette,_ and began her search.

It didn't take long to find him. He was sitting alone on the edge of one of Trafalgar Square's two fountains, facing Nelson's Column and eating a sandwich.

"Excuse me, sir," Elle said, trying to be as polite as possible. She held the newspaper out toward him. "I think you dropped this."

For a moment, he didn't respond. His back was to her and she still hadn't seen his face, but she could tell that he was chewing his food. Apparently refined to a fault, the man swallowed and wiped his mouth before speaking.

"Sit," he said without turning to look at her.

Elle frowned in confusion, but obeyed. They were seated on a corner so that she was facing the other fountain while the man continued to look toward Nelson's Column. Elle hoped he'd accept the newspaper then, but he simply continued speaking.

"Look at all of them," the man said of the people in the Square. Some of them—obviously tourists—were taking photographs; others were sitting and soaking in the scenery. All of them were smiling, all of them were happy. The man shook his head. "They're absolutely oblivious. The world goes on around them, but they don't _see_ it. They don't want to. They're quite happy to remain idiots."

Silence fell between them. Elle didn't know how to respond to the man's comment and he seemed to think he'd made his point. He began eating again, taking careful bites before chewing and swallowing. He did not acknowledge Elle's presence. He simply stared—or glared, she imagined—straight ahead and concentrated on his lunch.

"That, um, must be a good sandwich," she said awkwardly, trying to break the silence.

"Egg mayo," he replied after wiping his mouth. "I take my lunch here every day and it's always the same: an egg mayonnaise sandwich, some crisps, and a drink. Nothing ever changes."

"It could," Elle told him, trying to be helpful, "if you wanted it to."

"No," he said. "I couldn't possibly change now. I'm too set in my ways."

Elle looked at him, or, rather, at the back of his head. The remark made it sound as though he was an old man, but he looked like he was fairly young. There was no gray in his hair and what Elle could see of his skin—his right hand and the back of his neck—was smooth and unblemished. She looked down at _The International Gazette_ and smoothed a hand over its pages_. _She knew that she could set the paper down beside the man and walk away, but something about him intrigued her. She couldn't leave, at least not until she saw his face.

"Have you ever heard of _The International Gazette_?" the man asked suddenly. He didn't wait for a response. "I don't expect you have. It's published by a very small group for a very select clientele."

"Wow," Elle said, looking at the paper with renewed interest. She unrolled it so that the entire cover page was visible. "Fancy."

"Hardly," her companion scoffed. He'd finished his sandwich and now sat with his hands resting on his knees. "It's more like a club newsletter than anything else. Read me the headline," he demanded. Then, seeming to recognize his rudeness, he added, "Please."

Elle studied him for a moment. His shoulders had a defeated slump to them, but the rest of his body was rigid with tension. He was plucking at a loose thread on his sleeve, his movements becoming quicker and more agitated the longer the silence stretched between them. She decided to do as he'd asked before he could become restless enough to unravel his suit entirely.

"Keeper Albrecht Bieler Dead in London," Elle read.

"Dead," the man repeated with a bitter laugh. His hands tightened slowly into white-knuckled fists. "Dead in London. He was here—he was right _here_—but I couldn't—" He cut himself off with a frustrated growl and shoved his hands through his hair. He breathed out slowly, trying to compose himself, before asking, "Do you know who Albrecht Bieler was?"

"No," Elle replied. "Sorry."

"I didn't expect you would. The question was rhetorical," said the man. "Albrecht Bieler was born in 1932. He was one-quarter German, one-quarter Swiss, one-eighth Hungarian, and three-eighths Austrian. He could have chosen to live in any of the nations to which he had blood ties, but he didn't. He lived here in London. He was a good man and a very good friend, and now he's dead."

Elle was slightly confused by the breakdown of Bieler's heritage, but her companion was clearly upset and an off-topic rant was not to be unexpected. She thought she understood his rumpled clothes and messy hair now; clearly he hadn't seen any point in making himself look presentable since his friend's passing. Feeling sorry for the disheveled man, Elle grabbed his right hand and squeezed it. She experienced a brief, inexplicable burst of sadness as soon as her skin touched his, but it passed so quickly that she wondered if she'd imagined it. The man suddenly—_finally_—spun to face her and Elle found herself looking into the most stunning green eyes she'd ever seen.

"Oh my God," she whispered.

To say that he was handsome would be a gross understatement. He had exquisitely high cheekbones, a gently-curved nose, and thin, well-shaped lips. His eyebrows, though thick and full, were trimmed nicely and beautifully arched. In its disheveled state, his blonde hair made him appear reckless and devil-may-care, but there was a definite air of aristocratic sophistication about him. Then it was back to those eyes, those big, beautiful, gemstone-like, emerald green eyes. She was losing herself in them, falling deeper and deeper into the unknown…and then suddenly she wasn't, because she knew. She knew with sudden clarity just who she was sitting with, who she was staring at, whose hand she was holding.

"Oh my God!"

Elle released his hand and scrambled away, nearly falling into the fountain in the process. She folded her arms tightly across her chest and stared at him with wide eyes. He, on the other hand, seemed to have recovered from the shock of her touch and was staring at her pensively.

"You know who I am," he said after a moment, "don't you?"

She nodded. Elle had been a huge anime fan in high school. As a college student, her love of the Japanese cartoons had fallen by the wayside, but she knew about _Hetalia_ and she knew exactly who she was speaking to.

"Right then," he nodded. "Show me."

He pulled a scrap of paper and a pen from the briefcase at his feet and held them out toward Elle. Eyeing him warily, she took the items. _This is crazy_, she told herself. _This is real life, not an anime. He can't __**really **__be… _ Elle licked her lips and carefully wrote 'Arthur Kirkland' and then, beneath it, 'England.' She handed the paper back to him.

"Well?" she prompted, hoping she hadn't just made a fool of herself.

"You're right," he said, folding the paper and sliding it into his pocket. He grabbed his briefcase and started walking away. "Come with me."

She stared at him in shock. She was right? Go with him? _What? _Elle snatched up her purse and the newspaper and hurried after him.

"Mr. Kirkland!" she called, jogging to catch up with him. "Slow down!"

"Arthur," he corrected. They were near the road now and he was hailing a cab. "Tell me, if you had a chance to change your life, would you take it?"

"I—I don't know," Elle replied caught off guard by the question. "My head's still spinning from that bombshell you dropped, like, two seconds ago. You're really England?"

He smiled, "Arthur, please."

A cab pulled up to the curb and he spoke with the driver briefly before opening one of the back doors. He stood with one arm on the cab's roof and a hip propped against the car itself, looking at Elle expectantly.

"Once more, I ask you," Arthur said, "if you had a chance to change your life, would you take it?"

Elle bit her lip. "Well, I guess it depends. Would it be a good change or a bad change?"

"That's for you to decide," Arthur shrugged. "Life is what you make it, after all."

"Then I guess…well, I think I'd take the chance," Elle replied. "I mean, what's life without risks, right?"

"Precisely," Arthur said with a smile. "And here is your chance. Get in this cab with me, and your life will be changed forever. Whether that change will be good or bad, I cannot say, but I can assure you that so long as you're with me, no harm will befall you."

Elle was shocked by the offer. Her eyes widened dramatically and her mouth fell open in astonishment. Was this really happening? Had a blindingly attractive man who was _supposed_ to be fictional just asked her to get into a cab with him? Had be just promised to change her life and to protect her? It was too much to process.

"I…I don't even know you!" Elle cried. It wasn't what she'd meant to say, but it was definitely what she was thinking. "I can't just get in a cab with you and drive off to God knows where! And how can you ask me to go with you? You don't know who I am!"

Arthur raised a brow, "I don't?"

"No," Elle said emphatically. "You don't. You don't even know my name!"

"Hmm, well let's see," said Arthur, staring skyward and drumming his fingers on the roof of the cab. He looked back at Elle and locked gazes with her. "You're Gabrielle Jane Vasquez—Ellie to your family, Elle to everyone else—from Fredericksburg, Virginia in the United States of America. You're twenty years of age and, having just completed your second year at the College of William and Mary, you've come to England for a two week study abroad program with a pair of professors and a handful of peers. You're five feet, eight inches tall and have brown hair and brown eyes, but anyone could know that just by looking at you, so let's go deeper, shall we? As far as your personal life goes, you have a few close friends, but no significant other. In fact, you've never had a boyfriend, although not for lack of wanting one, and you've still not had your first kiss. Academically, you're a fine student who receives above-average marks in all classes not related to mathematics or the sciences. You're an aspiring diplomat and hope to work for the US State Department someday. Your greatest wish is to travel the world and this visit to England is your first time outside of the United States. Are you convinced or shall I go on?"

"H-how," Elle stammered, trying to force her brain to catch up with the conversation, "how did you know all that?"

"I make it my business to know who is within my borders," Arthur told her, face expressionless. "It's decision time. Get into the cab with me now and change your life, or walk away and forget this nonsense ever happened. Your life will go on as it always has; nothing will change. I must tell you that this is a one time, and one time only, offer. If you decline, you lose the opportunity for good. So, Gabrielle Vasquez, what is your choice?"

Elle just stared at him. What could she say to that? What could _anyone_ say to that? A supposedly fictional character had just given her an ultimatum: get into a cab or walk away. How was she supposed to respond? And what if he wasn't who he said he was? What if he was just some psychopath who was trying to get her alone so that he could kill her? It was too much to take in. Still, the choice lay before her and there was a time limit on it. She made eye contact with Arthur, searching for any deception or malevolence and finding none. Sure he was a little cranky and brusque, but he was being truthful. This was the honest-to-God, real-life Arthur Kirkland—the personification of England itself—and he was making her an offer. Elle looked back at the National Gallery and the people shuffling around Trafalgar Square. In the end, her choice wasn't much of a choice at all.

"I'm in," she said, sliding past Arthur and into the cab.

He nodded and got in beside her, "I suspected you would be."

Arthur pulled the door closed and set his briefcase on the floor between his feet. Elle, who wasn't entirely sure that she hadn't just made a huge mistake, gripped her purse tightly beside him. She met the cab driver's eyes in the rearview mirror. They were warm and encouraging and she felt her nervousness ease up just a little.

"Don't you worry, miss," the cabbie said kindly. "Our Mr. Kirkland's the finest man you'll ever meet—or finest country, rather."

"You know who he is?" Elle asked, surprised.

"Of course he does," Arthur replied. "Andrew is one of my very favorite drivers. Get us home quickly and safely as you can, Mr. Davies."

"Not a problem, sir," the cabbie grinned.

The vehicle pulled away from the curb and Elle felt a sudden burst of panic in her chest. _Oh my God, what did I just do?_ She looked sidelong at Arthur, who was loosening his tie and attempting to finger-comb his hair. He finally gave up the messy blonde mop as a lost cause and heaved a heavy sigh before retrieving a cell phone from the interior pocket of his suit jacket. He typed out a short message on the keys, sent the text, and returned the device to its original home. Elle waited for him to say something, but Arthur seemed content to stare out the window and watch as London flew by. It was Mr. Davies who broke the silence.

"I don't mean to overstep my boundaries, sir, but your new friend seems rather confused," the cabbie said. "Have you explained anything to her? Does she know why she's here?"

"Have I explained..?" Arthur muttered, furrowing his brow. Realization suddenly stole over his features. "No. No, I suppose I haven't. Ms. Vasquez—"

"Elle," she interrupted. At his bewildered look, she blushed and hurried to explain. "If you want me to call you Arthur, you have to call me Elle. It's only fair."

"Alright," Arthur agreed, nodding slowly, "My apologies. _Elle_, do you still have that newspaper with you?"

"Yes, it's here," she replied, unfolding it. "Why?"

"Take a look at the front page again and tell me what you see."

Elle did as he asked. "Well, there's the headline about Bieler's death and an article about it, and then there's a picture."

"Good. Read the caption."

"It says 'Albrecht Bieler, seventy-nine, on vacation in the Swiss Alps, November 2011.' That can't be right, though," Elle said, frowning. "The guy in the picture looks like he's my age. Who is he?"

"Albrecht Bieler," Arthur replied.

"But the caption said he was—"

"Seventy-nine, yes," Arthur interrupted, "And he was, but he certainly didn't look it."

"That's an understatement," Elle said, looking at the picture. Bieler was a young man with short brown hair, an athletic build, and a captivating smile. He appeared to be somewhere in his early twenties, but had apparently been almost four times as old. "How is that even possible?"

"For many years, Albrecht Bieler was The Country Keeper," Arthur told her. "He accepted the position at age twenty-one. From that point on, he did not physically age. Time had no power over him; he was immortal."

"Immortal?" Elle wondered. The story sounded farfetched, but who was she to judge? She was sitting in a cab with the personification of England. She could believe just about anything at this point. "But he's dead. How does that work?"

"As I said, time had no power over him," Arthur murmured, his eyes suddenly distant. "Man, however, did. Albrecht was murdered, shot dead in his apartment one week ago."

"That's awful," Elle said. "So he couldn't die of old age, but he could be killed in other ways."

"Yes," Arthur replied, coming back to himself. "That's correct."

"Bummer. But what does any of this have to do with me?"

For a long moment, Arthur did not respond. He steepled his fingers and held them to his lips, breathing slowly as he stared straight ahead and gathered his thoughts. Elle waited. When he turned to face her, she could see centuries of wisdom and experience in his eyes. Her breath caught in her throat as reality weighed down upon her. She wasn't just talking to a man. She was talking to a _country_.

"The truth," England said, "is that we—meaning the other nations and myself—aren't very good at looking after ourselves. We need someone to do it for us. That was Albrecht Bieler's job, and now it will be yours."

"What," Elle said with a nervous chuckle. Was he being serious? "no interview? You just find me in Trafalgar Square and—bam!—I'm instantly a…a Country Keeper or whatever?"

"Well, you'll have to campaign, of course," Arthur told her, "which will mean traveling to other countries and trying to win them over. It shouldn't be a challenge, though. You'll have my support, as well as America's—my brothers', too, if you play your cards right. Others will join up quickly. You'll see."

"This isn't making any sense," Elle groaned, burying her face in her hands.

England watched her curiously, "Which part?"

"All of it!" she exploded, throwing her hands outward. "You, Albrecht What's-His-Name, all that Country Keeper crap…it's crazy!"

"I see." Arthur nodded. He turned to the cab driver. "Just here, please, Mr. Davies. We're quite capable of walking the rest of the way."

"Are you sure, sir?" Andrew asked.

"Positive. The length of my drive is a perfectly manageable distance."

"Alright then."

The cab slowed and stopped. Arthur thanked and paid the cabbie before gathering up his briefcase. He nodded to Elle and exited the vehicle. Not knowing what else to do, she moved copy him.

"I know he comes off a bit harsh," the cabbie said suddenly, "but he really is a fine country, our England. Give him some time. He'll warm up to you, Miss Vasquez. I guarantee it."

"Thanks, Mr. Davies," Elle said with a grateful smile. "Have a good day."

"You too, love."

Elle climbed out of the cab and shut the door behind her. She stared after the vehicle until it had faded from sight, half-wishing that it had taken her with it. Despite the cab driver's reassurances, she was nervous. Arthur obviously wanted her for a job, but he didn't seem to like her very much. England cleared his throat behind her and she turned toward him. The look on his face was not very encouraging.

"Come on," he said, and started walking.

Elle hurried after him. They were traveling along a wide gravel path, presumably Arthur's driveway. A large house—Arthur's house—was visible in the distance and all around it lay endless, open fields. The land was very green and quite beautiful. It was dotted here and there with trees and flowering plants; horses and sheep grazed at their leisure. It was, in a word, idyllic.

"How far are we from London?" Elle asked.

"Not far," Arthur replied distractedly. He had his cell phone out again. "I've contacted your professors. They're under the impression that you met an important official at the National Gallery and have been offered an internship. They'll want to speak with you, of course, to make certain that you're alright, but I believe they'll accept what I've told them as the truth. We'll contact your parents soon and feed them the same story. Then you'll be free to campaign."

"Yeah, about that," Elle sighed. "Are you sure I'm right for this job?"

"Absolutely," Arthur told her. "Why do you ask?"

"Well…_how_ do you know?"

"Do you remember when you grabbed my hand in Trafalgar Square?" England asked. Elle colored, embarrassed, but nodded. Of course she remembered. "As soon as your skin touched mine, I felt better than I have in weeks. My stress levels decreased, my anxiety faded…even my sadness over Albrecht's death was lessened to a degree. In that moment, I knew. You're the next Country Keeper."

"So that's what Mr. Bieler did?" Elle wondered. "He went around making sure that you and the other nations were happy?"

"That was part of his job, yes," Arthur nodded. "He talked with us and gave us advice and offered a pat on the back or a firm hug when we needed it. Albrecht was more of a Verbal Keeper; he preferred to help us by speaking to us and only touched if it was necessary. I can tell that, if elected, you'll be more Tactile and make physical contact readily."

"You looked uncomfortable when I touched your hand."

"I was surprised," he explained, "by both the contact and the fact that all of my negative feelings were draining away. You must understand, we countries have gotten used to Albrecht's style of Keeping. America and some of the other nations won't mind physical contact, but you'll have to give the rest of us some time to adjust."

"I understand," Elle said, though she really didn't. "Tell me more about the campaign. Will I be running against anyone?"

"Yes," Arthur told her. "Russia and China have already put forth a candidate, a girl from Beijing, and most of the South American countries are behind a young man from Brazil. I expect the African nations to select a candidate as well. With you in the race, there'll be four candidates. Don't worry though; you'll have a good chance of winning."

"How so?"

"Well, the South American countries will all vote together, as will the African countries. They're fairly large voting blocs, but not large enough to win the election on their own. In the end, it'll be down to you and the girl from Beijing. That's where it gets tricky. China and Russia will win votes to their side through intimidation; we'll win votes by gaining trust. That's the purpose of the campaign."

They were nearing the house—mansion, really—and Elle couldn't help admiring its grandness. It was built in the Tudor style. Stately and elegant in its architecture, but warm and welcoming with its flower-filled window boxes, the house was clearly not just a building. It was a home.

"You haven't said anything," Arthur began, sounding slightly uncomfortable, "but I recognize that I've been rather harsh with you. From the moment that I bumped into you, I was rude and callous and abrupt. I could tell you that I've been stressed beyond my limit for days on end, but that's really no excuse. I'm a gentleman and I haven't been acting like one. For that, I apologize."

Elle blinked in surprise. "Uh…don't worry about it. You weren't that bad."

"Perhaps not," Arthur conceded, "but you should really hold me accountable. I'm trying to work on my attitude. I've been told I come off as something of a prick."

"Who told you that?"

England laughed, "Just about everyone, but mostly my brothers. And speaking of my brothers, it looks as though they're all here."

He indicated a sextet of flagpoles that stood in front of his house. At the very top of the tallest pole, a Union Flag was flapping in the afternoon breeze. Four others, all shorter than the first but equal to each other in height, bore the flags of Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland, and the Republic of Ireland, respectively. The sixth flagpole was bare.

"It's our signal to each other," Arthur explained. "Whenever one of us arrives home, we have our flag raised. It helps us know who's here and who's not. That way, we can avoid each other or at least prepare ourselves before seeing one another. It's helped avert many a fight between us."

"Are all of you usually here at the same time?" Elle asked.

"Not usually," Arthur replied. "We've all got our own homes in our individual capitals. I have a place in the middle of London, Scotland's got a home in Edinburgh, and so on. This is the UK House. I typically share it with Wales, Scotland, and Northern Ireland. The Republic comes by to visit, but he spends most of his time in Dublin. He's his own sovereign nation, so he thinks his flagpole should be as tall as the one that flies the Union Flag, but this is the UK. He's a guest here and he'll take what he's given—that's my opinion, anyway. He's lucky his flagpole isn't shorter than all the others."

Elle laughed. She might be dealing with countries, but they weren't any different from humans in their relationships. England spoke of his brothers with a sort of exasperated fondness: he clearly loved them, but they obviously got on his nerves.

When Arthur and Elle reached the house, they were greeted by a stout, matronly woman with wispy gray hair. The woman went immediately to Arthur and pulled him into a hug. She then proceeded to fuss over his messy hair and rumpled clothes.

"Oh, England, look at you!" the woman wailed, "Such a mess. Have you been sleeping well, dear? Eating enough? Never mind; I can tell you haven't. Don't you worry, though. After a few days here, you'll be right as rain."

"I highly doubt that, Mrs. Cooper," Arthur said, looking both embarrassed by and pleased with her attention. "Did you not notice? My brothers are here."

"I did notice," the woman—Mrs. Cooper—replied with a frown, "and I'll have you know that Scotland's been causing trouble left and right. He filled the front yard with hundreds of tiny Scottish flags at some point last night; the groundskeepers have only just finished picking them all up. That little stunt was inconvenient, to be sure, but he's been wreaking real havoc inside."

Arthur sighed, "If he doesn't want to be here, why doesn't he just go home to Edinburgh? No one's forcing him to stay."

"He says it's symbolic," Mrs. Cooper explained. "He can't leave the UK, so, in his mind, he can't leave the UK House. It all comes down to him wanting his independence, really."

"Oh, God," Arthur moaned, massaging his forehead, "that's right. He wants his independence. I'm sure that's all I'll be hearing about for the next few days."

"Chin up, England dear," Mrs. Cooper said, patting his arm. "It won't be as bad as all that. You'll see. Oh! Who's this?"

Elle smiled. She'd felt invisible for the past several minutes, but she didn't really mind. It was interesting to see how Arthur interacted with this woman who had taken it upon herself to be his stand-in mother.

"Mrs. Cooper, this is Gabrielle Vasquez, candidate for Country Keeper," Arthur introduced. "Elle, meet my very dear friend Mrs. Mary Cooper, Steward of the UK House."

"It's nice to meet you, ma'am," Elle said, extending a hand to shake. She wasn't surprised when her hand was ignored and she was pulled into a tight, motherly hug instead.

"American!" Mrs. Cooper gushed, "Oh, welcome, dear. Welcome! England, I didn't know you were supporting an American for the position of Keeper."

"Neither did I until earlier this afternoon," Arthur shrugged. He looked toward the house. "If you'll excuse us, Mrs. Cooper, I think I'll take Elle inside. I'd like to give her a tour and introduce her to my brothers."

"Best hold off on the tour, dear," Mrs. Cooper said, releasing Elle from her smothering embrace. "As I said, Scotland's been wreaking havoc. The workmen are just now putting the foyer back together. Don't worry; everything will be in its place by tonight. Just be patient. And go in through the back door, if you don't mind."

Arthur sighed, "I don't mind. This way, Elle."

He began leading her around the back of the house, but stopped as a thought struck him.

"Mrs. Cooper?" Arthur said, half-turning to face her, "I think it's time we let St. George's Cross fly, don't you?"

He inclined his head toward the flagpoles and the woman nodded eagerly. She disappeared into the house, but returned quickly with the flag that Arthur had requested. Mrs. Cooper went immediately to the only barren pole and raised the length of fabric to the top. Elle smiled as she watched St. George's Cross flap and billow in the breeze. The Flag of England was flying with its brothers; England was home.


	2. Welcome to the UK House

**Hey guys! **

**Welcome to Chapter Two! ****In it, we'll meet three of England's four brothers. I've seen some great fanon designs, but nothing canon, so I decided to come up with my own descriptions of them. Hopefully I did these great countries justice! Having said that, this chapter is mostly exposition. It introduces some of the story's major characters as well as things that will be important to the plot later on. Everything in here is important, I promise!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry about this," Arthur said as he led Elle around the back of the house. His expression twisted into a scowl. "I can't believe Scotland tore the house up. If he's broken anything valuable, I swear I'll murder him."<p>

Anger was radiating off of him in waves; Elle could practically feel it. She looked at him, noticing the tic in his tightly clenched jaw and the corded tension in his neck and shoulders. She wasn't sure if England was actually capable of committing fratricide, but he seemed to be seriously contemplating it. Elle recalled what Arthur had told her in the cab: physical, skin-on-skin contact had the power to relieve his stress and make him feel instantly better. Grabbing his hand in Trafalgar Square had been impulsive, though. Doing so now, especially after so much premeditation, would feel awkward and strange. Arthur had said that she would someday be a Tactile Country Keeper, but she wasn't ready for that role yet and she was certain that, at the moment, England wouldn't be comfortable with her trying to fill it. With physical contact ruled out as a possibility, she opted for verbal comfort.

"Arthur, relax," Elle soothed. "I really don't mind going around this way—I promise. And didn't Mrs. Cooper say that the workmen would have everything back in place by tonight? I'm sure you have nothing to worry about."

"You're probably right," Arthur conceded with a sigh. An ivy-covered stone wall a short distance from the house caught his attention. With a reluctant smile, he pointed it out to Elle. "That's my rose garden. I'll take you to see it later, if you'd like."

"Sure," she nodded, happy to encourage his brightening disposition. "That sounds great."

For the time being, however, their destination was still the house. Arthur led Elle up to the backdoor, but paused before opening it. He looked at her with serious green eyes, one hand wrapped apprehensively around the doorknob.

"I don't know what the house looks like right now, how my brothers might act toward you, or where they are at this moment," England said. "Promise you won't think any less of me because of their words or actions and please don't run away, no matter what happens."

"Arthur, they can't be _that_ bad," Elle told him, rolling her eyes.

He raised a brow.

"I have brothers, too, you know," she said, unimpressed by his dramatics.

England snorted, "Not like mine. Now promise."

"What, that I won't run away? Where would I run _to_, exactly?" Elle smirked. Arthur continued to stare at her, waiting. She sighed. "Fine, sure. I promise. Can we go inside now?"

He waited a moment more, gauging her honesty, before nodding and opening the door. Elle preceded him into the house and found herself standing in a quaint but spacious kitchen. There was a rather large refrigerator, presumably stocked with enough food to satisfy the five countries that occupied the UK House, along the back wall. It was surrounded on both sides by countertops and cabinetry. There was a cozy little breakfast nook in the far left corner of the room and a cooking area populated by two ovens and a stove in the far right.

Having taken all of this in, Elle allowed herself to focus on the room's only other occupant. He was standing at the sink with his shirtsleeves pushed up past his elbows, washing dishes. The task was being performed absently but efficiently; he appeared preoccupied with staring out the small window before him. His hair was neat, dark, and wavy—probably curly if he let it grow a bit longer—and contrasted nicely with his fair skin. Viewing him in profile, Elle could see that his nose was very similar to Arthur's, but with a slight upturn at the end. His cheekbones resembled Arthur's as well, though they were perhaps even more defined. A strong jaw and full lips rounded out the man's appearance. _Another handsome country, _Elle thought, assuming that the man was one of England's brothers. _Which one, though?_ As she pondered the question, Arthur appeared at her side. The man at the sink looked up then. His eyes—bright and sharp and emerald green—went first to Elle, then to Arthur, and then back to the window.

"You look bloody awful," he said.

Elle frowned, but the comment hadn't been meant for her.

"You haven't seen me for a week," said Arthur, sounding offended, "and _that's_ how you choose to greet me?"

"Well, I _was_ going to say that you look like death warmed over, but I thought that that might be insensitive in light of Albrecht's recent passing," the man replied. He stepped away from the sink, wiping his hands on his trousers to dry them. "You do look awful, though. Probably haven't slept in, what, two or three days now? That isn't healthy, _brawd_."

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much," Arthur said, standing up taller and correcting his posture as though that somehow proved his point.

"You think you are," the man sighed. "That's the problem."

He walked forward and moved to grab England's arm, but Arthur pulled away, scowling.

"Stop that," he growled. He inclined his head to indicate Elle. "We have a guest."

The dark-haired man looked unimpressed. "Who is she?"

"Gabrielle Vasquez, our new Keeper," Arthur replied. He glanced toward her. "Elle, this is my brother, Wales."

"Gareth," Wales insisted, using his human name. He shook Elle's proffered hand distractedly. "It's a pleasure." He then turned back to his brother. "Don't try to change the subject, Arthur. You may be able to fool everyone else, but you can't fool me. You're exhausted. You need to sit down before you fall down."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Arthur said stubbornly. "I'm _fine_."

"That's what you always say," his brother muttered, heaving a long-suffering sigh.

Having said this, Wales—Gareth, Elle reminded herself—grabbed England by the shoulders and steered him toward the breakfast nook. Elle followed, trying not to laugh at the pleading looks Arthur was casting in her direction. He was protesting loudly and causing a fuss, but he could not break free of his brother's hold. He was eventually forced to take a seat at the table. Elle slid into a chair across from him. Arthur was—dare she think it—_pouting_, arms folded tightly across his chest and lower lip jutting out just slightly as he glared up at his brother. Gareth, for his part, was completely unfazed.

"You need tea," Wales decided. "Lucky for you I've got some freshly made." He turned to their guest. "Gabrielle, would you like a cup as well?"

"Elle, please," she corrected with a smile. "And no, thank you."

"Something else, then? Water, maybe? I could fix some coffee, if you'd like."

"Water's fine, thanks," Elle grinned.

"Alright, water," Gareth nodded, grinning back. "And tea for Mr. I'm-Not-the-Least-Bit-Tired."

"I never said that!" Arthur protested.

Wales ignored the comment and went to fetch the drinks.

"I don't know what you were so worried about," Elle whispered once the dark-haired country was out of earshot. "I like him. He's really sweet."

"Sweet?" Arthur snorted quietly. "He's a nightmare!"

"He's just trying to take care of you," Elle pointed out.

"I know, but he isn't meant to," England muttered. "_I'm_ supposed to look after _him_."

Elle started at him, certain that she'd just learned something significant. Did Arthur feel that way about all of his brothers? Did he think that he was supposed to take care of them constantly? Did he believe that their attempts at reciprocation were unnecessary, perhaps insulting? Her thoughts were interrupted by Gareth's return. He placed a glass of water before her and gave Arthur a steaming cup of tea. Elle reached for her glass and glanced sidelong at Wales, who had taken a seat beside her. His eyes were fixed on England, who was staring disdainfully at the tea.

"There's something wrong with it," Arthur said after a long moment. "Is it poisoned?"

"It's tea, Arthur," Gareth assured. "I fixed it just the way you like it."

England still looked skeptical. "Are you certain?"

"Yes."

"The color is wrong."

"Really, Arthur. Shut your mouth and drink your tea."

England smirked, "I can't do _both_."

"Don't test my patience," Gareth warned. "Drink. Your. Tea."

"Yes, Mummy," his brother shot back with an impertinent little grin.

Elle hid a smile as Arthur picked up the cup with slow, deliberate movements. He brought it to his lips, watching his brother over the rim as he drank. Gareth stared back, unperturbed.

"How is it?" Wales asked conversationally.

"Fine. Very good, actually," Arthur commented. He looked at Elle, "Not poisoned, in case you were wondering."

She had just taken a sip of water and nearly choked as she swallowed it wrong. He was _joking_ with her. She really hadn't expected that. She wondered at the cause of his sudden levity. Was he simply happy to be home, or was the presence of one of his brothers—whom he'd complained and warned her about repeatedly—secretly pleasing to him? Regardless, she was happy to see that he was in a better mood.

"That's great," Elle laughed. "I was so worried."

"Your sarcasm is not appreciated," England informed her, though his wry grin said otherwise.

He took another sip of tea before setting the cup down. He really did look much better. His eyes were clearer and he held himself less stiffly, as though the tension he'd been feeling earlier had simply bled out of him. In his relaxed state, Arthur had let his guard down. Elle could now see what Wales had known all along: England truly was exhausted. He had sunk down in his chair, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. He seemed to be on the verge of falling asleep.

"Feeling better?" Gareth asked.

"Yeah," Arthur replied, sounding drowsy.

"Less stress? Looser muscles?"

Arthur nodded and yawned. "Yes to both."

"Good, because David Cameron is here to see you."

England's eyes shot open. _So much for that, _Elle thought as all traces of fatigue fled Arthur's body. He sat up and slammed his hands down on the table, nearly spilling what remained of his tea in the process. His jaw was tightly clenched and the tic that Elle had noticed earlier was active again, jumping spasmodically beneath his skin.

"David Cameron, as in Prime Minister of the United Kingdom David Cameron?" Arthur growled. He didn't wait for a response. "Why on _earth _didn't you say something sooner!"

"I told you," Gareth said. "You looked awful when you walked through the door. You think I was going to let you talk to the Prime Minister in that condition? And you're still not ready to see him. You need to at least _try_ to look presentable. Think, Arthur. You claim to be so good at it."

"Okay," Arthur said, exhaling slowly. Elle could tell that he was just barely holding himself in check. "You're right, it's fine. I did need some time to pull myself together. That's the reason I didn't go to the meeting we had scheduled for this morning. I'll put on a new suit, run a comb though my hair, and have a chat with the Prime Minister. If he went to the trouble of coming here, whatever he has to say must be important. Where is he now?"

"In the rose garden with Ireland."

Arthur stiffened. "And by Ireland, you mean..?"

"All of it," Wales replied, looking uncomfortable. "Both of them. Ordinarily I would have objected, but they've been together since Albrecht's funeral. They haven't been spending any time apart, and you know what that does to them."

"Oh, God," Arthur moaned, dropping his head into his hands. "They're speaking in tandem?"

"Yes," Wales said guiltily. "It's almost constant. You can't separate them when they get like that—it would be cruel. I wanted to send one of the workmen out with the Prime Minister, but they're all busy cleaning house. Scotland would have been my next choice, but he's not capable of being around government officials at the moment. Ireland was the only option."

"Why didn't _you_ stay with the Prime Minister?" England demanded.

"Because someone had to be here to look after you," Gareth told him. "Mr. Davies called before he picked you up at Trafalgar Square. He said you looked ill. I wanted to make sure that you were at least somewhat presentable for your meeting with Mr. Cameron."

Arthur contemplated that for a moment before nodding, "It wasn't a bad plan. You had limited resources and very few options. You did your best."

"Oh, you're too kind," Gareth deadpanned. He rapped his knuckles against the table. "Now finish your tea and go fix yourself up. I'm sending the Prime Minister to your office in twenty minutes."

Arthur nodded and picked up his cup. He paused before taking a drink, looking at the tea with wide eyes and raised brows.

"You drugged me?" England asked, meeting his brother's gaze.

"Just a little," Wales replied. "Enough to calm you and get you thinking clearly."

"Hmm," Arthur hummed thoughtfully, downing the rest of the tea. "Thanks for that."

"Any time. Now go."

"Alright, I'm—oh!" England said, a sudden thought occurring to him. He looked at Elle as though he'd forgotten she was there. He probably had. "I'm sorry, Elle. I really do have to do this. You can wait outside my office, if you'd like. Or perhaps you'd prefer to stay here with Gareth?"

He voiced the question apprehensively, clearly wondering if his brother and the American girl—who had only just met—would be comfortable being alone together. Elle appreciated his concern, but found it rather odd. She'd only known Gareth for a few minutes, true, but she hadn't known Arthur for much longer than that. So far, Wales had been nothing but friendly, warm, and inviting; being alone with him wouldn't bother her in the slightest. She informed Arthur that, yes, she would prefer to stay with Gareth. Wales voiced no objections. With a nod and a speedy farewell, Arthur left the table and hurried away to prepare for his meeting. Almost immediately after his brother's departure, Gareth excused himself and went to inform the Prime Minister that he would soon have his audience with England.

Elle remained at the breakfast nook for a minute or two, sliding her empty glass from one hand to the other and looking around the kitchen, before deciding to do a bit of exploring. After all, no one had told her she couldn't. There were three ways out of the kitchen: one that led to the backyard, one that led to the hallway that Arthur had disappeared down, and one that led to an adjacent room. After a moment of deliberation, Elle chose the third option. She passed through the doorway and found herself in a cozy and charming living room. A pair of plush sofas occupied a good portion of the floor space. They were perfectly positioned to both promote conversation and provide a clear view of the television. A fireplace took up much of the wall that was closest to the sitting area; built-in bookshelves filled with novels and tomes of various ages flanked it on either side.

The room was also home to a number of photographs. Some were older and some were more recent, but all featured the same five young men. The pictures, candid rather than posed, showed Arthur, Gareth, and their brothers in a number of situations: some displayed the quintet laughing together, others seemed to have been snapped mid-argument, and still others presented intimate family moments the siblings had shared. Elle took a moment to observe the photos before moving on to a large painting that sat between two windows on a nearby wall. The painting was entitled _A Map of the British Isles_ and was…exactly what it said it was. Great Britain, Ireland, and the surrounding smaller islands had been immortalized on the canvas in a way that would do any cartographer proud. However, human names rather than country names had been written over the landmasses. 'Arthur' had been carefully inscribed over England, 'Gareth' had been printed neatly over Wales, and names that Elle was unfamiliar with covered Scotland, the Republic of Ireland, and Northern Ireland. It was very unique and rather fascinating.

"Would you believe that in all our years together, _that's_ the only family portrait we've managed to have done?" Elle turned to find Gareth standing in the doorway. He smiled and crossed the room, taking up position beside her as he, too, observed the painting. "All of the portrait sittings we've ever been to have ended in disaster; my brothers and I inevitably find ourselves arguing over something. Sometimes we even come to blows. This portrait was something that Scotland suggested one night when we were all together at a pub. We were all drunk, so we thought it was a great idea. We commissioned the portrait that same night and, by the time we sobered up, the artist had already started it. We decided to let him finish and ended up with this. Well, not exactly this—we added our signatures later—but we were very, very pleased. It ended up being our Christmas gift to each other that year."

"I like it. It's really cool," Elle told him. She grinned. "And it'll help me keep track of all of you. I just have to look at this painting and I can say, 'oh, Wales likes to be called Gareth' or 'that's right, England asked me to call him Arthur' or 'hey, Scotland's human name is I…I-ah-guin?'" She looked sheepishly at her companion. "Sorry, I'm not sure how to say it."

"That's alright. You're close," Gareth reassured her. "It's Iagan, pronounced more EE-uk-an."

"And Northern Ireland is..?"

"Eirnin," Wales explained. "So the E-I-R is 'air' and the N-I-N is 'nin,' as you could probably guess."

"Yeah, I could at least get that much," Elle chuckled. She studied the painting. "Well, that just leaves the Republic of Ireland, and I guess he's Finnian." At Gareth's amused look, she shrugged. "What? I can figure _that_ one out."

"Yes, it seems you can," Wales smiled. "Wait here for a moment. There's something I want to show you."

He walked the short distance to the area where the framed photographs were displayed and plucked one from its place. Holding it against his chest, he returned to Elle's side. He looked at her, asking with a single raised brow if she was ready. At her nod, he held the picture frame next to the portrait.

"Oh, wow!" Elle laughed. "It's like a human map!"

"An accidental one, but, yes, that's what it is," Gareth replied. He handed her the picture so that she could see it better. "It was taken a few years ago when we were visiting America at his beach house in Pensacola, Florida. Alfred suggested a 'chicken fight' and my brothers, being as naturally competitive as they are, thought it was a great idea. On the left, you can see Eirnin sitting on Finnian's shoulders; that's Iagan on Arthur's shoulders to the right."

Elle grinned, fully appreciating the hilarity of the photograph. In it, Finnian and Arthur were knee-deep in blue-green water, stances wide and sturdy. Their teeth were bared and they were glaring at each other, but there was a definite playfulness in their eyes. Eirnin and Iagan, seated upon their brothers' shoulders, wore similar expressions. The photographer had caught the pair mid-tussle: their hands were locked together as they each attempted to throw the other off balance and into the water. Gareth was in the picture as well, though he didn't appear to be taking part in the fight.

"What happened to you?" Elle asked.

"I had been trying to get out of their way, but a wave knocked me down," Gareth explained self-consciously. "The undertow started pulling at me, so I grabbed the closest thing I could find…which just so happened to be Arthur's leg. The picture was taken right before he lost his balance and fell into the water, dragging everyone else down with him." He tapped the frame, smiling and shaking his head. "It's actually a very embarrassing photo of me, but it's my favorite of us all together."

After returning the picture to its rightful place, Gareth invited Elle to have a seat on one of the sofas. He then began asking questions. Was she enjoying being abroad? What had been the most interesting thing she'd seen so far? How had she and Arthur met? She answered the first two quickly and received nothing but smiles in response. As she began to explain what had happened in Trafalgar Square, however, Gareth's expression flattened. She told him about the dropped newspaper, her attempt to return it, Arthur's initial refusal to show his face and his strange request that she read the newspaper's headline.

"After I read it, he seemed so upset that I just…grabbed his hand," Elle said with a shrug. "I wasn't really thinking. I just did it and, for a second, I got this weird feeling, almost like I could feel what he was going through. It was over really quickly, so at the time I wasn't sure if it was real or not, but Arthur told me that a Country Keeper can get rid of a nation's negative feelings through touch. I guess I did it without realizing what I was doing."

Gareth was frowning and chewing his lower lip. He looked pensive.

"What did my brother tell you about the process of becoming a Keeper?" he asked, drumming his fingers on his knee.

"Um, not much," Elle said, trying to remember. "He told me that there would be a campaign or something. I don't really remember."

"There's also supposed to be an interview process," Wales explained. "It can sometimes go on for days. Before telling you _anything_ about who he is, before even _mentioning_ the term Country Keeper, he should have sat down with you—in a café or restaurant, not the middle of Trafalgar Square—and gotten to know you."

"I asked him about an interview. I was mostly joking, but it didn't really matter. He seemed to know a lot about me already," said Elle, wondering why Gareth seemed so agitated. "And I already knew who he was. I…I've seen _Hetalia._"

"A Japanese cartoon? You think that provides an accurate depiction of who England is?" Wales scoffed. "Not likely. My brother is not a one-dimensional character, he's a country. And as a country, he knows the process of Keeper selection. Even if he'd thought you recognized him, he could have easily played it off. He didn't, though, did he? He probably launched right into his speech about changing your life. Whatever he knew about you—things about your home, your family, your friends—was information he could access because you are within his borders. He knows facts _about_ you, but he doesn't know _you_. That's what the interview process is for: to gain insight into your character, your morals and your values. I'll bet I've learned more about those things in the time I've been with you than Arthur has all afternoon."

Elle mulled that over for a moment. "Maybe Arthur thought he didn't need to interview me after what happened when I touched his hand. Doesn't that prove that I'm the next Country Keeper?"

"No," Gareth shook his head. "All it proves is that my brother has accepted you as _his_ Keeper. Anyone can be a Country Keeper, Elle; it's not some pre-destined, supernatural thing. Most nations are cautious when searching for a new Keeper. Only after a candidate has been properly interviewed and proven worthy is he or she informed of what is happening. Even then, nothing is guaranteed. As you said, there is a campaign and an election process. Countries may promise their votes to a candidate, but will not accept him or her as the Keeper until everything is made official. If England led you to believe that you are definitely going to be the next Country Keeper, he misinformed you."

"So," Elle said, exhaling slowly and just a bit shakily, "you're saying that if I grab your hand right now, nothing will happen?"

Gareth nodded. "I do like you, Elle, but I haven't accepted you as the Country Keeper. Not yet."

"Do…do you mind if I try anyway?"

He held out his hand. "Please."

She took his hand and clasped it tightly. Gareth gripped back, his palm rough and calloused where it touched hers. Definite skin-on-skin contact. She looked up at him, noting the weariness, sadness, and pity in his expressive green eyes. The physical contact was not relieving him of those negative emotions. Elle focused her thoughts, trying to consciously rid Wales of the negativity, but that did nothing, either. Finally, she sighed and released his hand.

"You're right," Elle said. "I didn't feel anything. So what does that mean, then? Is Arthur just playing with me? Does he want me to be the Country Keeper or not?"

Gareth hesitated. "I believe he does, but he isn't thinking clearly. He and the former Keeper, Albrecht Bieler, were very close. England is grieving, but he won't admit it. He could have latched onto you for any number of reasons."

"Okay, but why didn't he tell me any of the stuff you just did?" Elle asked. She sighed, leaning her head back against the sofa cushions. "I don't understand him."

"Welcome to the club," Gareth chuckled humorlessly. "My brother is a study in contradictions. He wants to take care of us, but complains that doing so is a strain on his economy. He wants others to accept his help, but thinks that accepting aid for himself is a sign of weakness. He wants to keep our family together, but controls us to the point that all we want to do is leave him. The worst part is that he won't acknowledge his contradictory nature, no matter how often we point it out to him. His constant insistence that everything is 'just fine' doesn't make the problems go away, but he never realizes that until it's too late."

"What do you mean by that?" Elle asked. Wales looked uncomfortable with the question. "Never mind; I guess it's not important. Tell me more about how this whole 'physical embodiment of countries' thing works. What's it like?"

Gareth seemed happy with the change of subject. "Well, we're mostly what we appear to be: people. We have physical needs for things like food, shelter, warmth, and sleep, and we also have emotional needs, which are satisfied by our friendships and familial ties. Like humans, we can become fatigued, sick, or injured. However, we do not age and we cannot die. If any of us is ever dealt a fatal blow—say, to the head or heart—it is reflected within our borders as a catastrophic event with a massive death toll. We can't die, but our people can. We avoid putting them through that at all costs. It works in reverse as well: if a catastrophic event takes place within our borders, we feel our people's pain. For example, America was badly injured after the attack on the World Trade Center on the eleventh of September 2001. He was in hospital for days.

"It's more than that, though. Being the physical embodiments of countries, as you said, means that we are connected to our people on the deepest of levels. Their wants, needs, and fears very often become our own. That's what's wrong with Scotland; that's why he's wrecking the house and putting his flag on every available surface. A fair percentage of his people want independence and he's going mad because he's not able to give it to them. Normally, the franticness he's feeling would be counteracted by the Country Keeper. Since we don't have one at the moment, Iagan's on his own…and that isn't a very pleasant place to be."

"Do you think the lack of Country Keeper explains the way Arthur's acting, too?" Elle wondered.

"I do," Wales nodded. "It's also the reason Finnian and Eirnin are staying so close to each other. They're more stable—at least emotionally—together than they are apart."

At that moment, they heard the kitchen door open. A pair of boisterous voices lifted in song floated into the living room. Elle raised a brow. Gareth grinned and gestured in the direction the noise was coming from, conveying the words 'see? I told you' with nothing but his expression.

"That must be the end of the twenty minutes," Wales said, getting to his feet. He offered a hand to Elle. "Come on. Let's go rescue the Prime Minister."

She took the proffered hand uncertainly, recalling the conversation that Gareth and Arthur had had about their Irish brothers. Wales noticed her apprehension.

"Arthur and I were a bit hard on them earlier," he said. "There's nothing wrong with them; they're really very nice. It's just that they're loud and talkative and very high energy. Our main concern was that they'd talk or dance the Prime Minister to death, but they controlled themselves as much as possible. I'd like you to meet them."

Elle nodded and followed Gareth into the kitchen. They found the Prime Minister standing at the center of the room, smiling patiently at the two younger—at least physically—men who flanked him on either side. Upon seeing Gareth, the Prime Minister's smile turned to one of relief. When his companions stopped talking and spun to see what he was looking at, their own smiles transformed into radiant grins.

"Gareth!" they chorused, greeting him as though they hadn't seen him in days. Then the one Elle recognized as Finnian looked at her and asked, "Who's she?"

"Boys, this is Elle. Arthur wants her to be the next Country Keeper," said Wales. "Elle, these are my brothers—"

"Ireland!" they interrupted. They'd crossed the kitchen quickly and now stood directly before Elle.

"Northern—" said one, grinning as he tapped two fingers against his forehead in salute.

"—and the Republic of," said the other, dropping into a playful bow.

They definitely resembled Arthur and Gareth—high cheekbones, strong jaw lines, and brilliant green eyes were apparently family traits—and they were practically identical to each other. Both had round faces, thin lips, and high foreheads; their fair, freckled skin was another shared trait. Their charming snub noses were slightly different—Northern Ireland's was turned up at the end while the Republic's was not—and although they both had ears that stuck out a bit, it was less noticeable on the Republic of Ireland because of the length of his hair. In fact, their hair was the most obvious difference between them. Northern Ireland's was considerably shorter and quite a bit darker, a russet red so deep that it was almost brown. It complimented the Republic of Ireland's coppery auburn mop—which looked like it hadn't seen a hairbrush in days—rather nicely. They were, in a word, handsome, though Elle's mind supplied 'adorable' as well.

"Hi. Finnian, right?" Elle said, shaking hands with the grinning Republic. She looked at the other, "And Eirnin?"

The two seemed genuinely flattered that she knew their names and immediately began asking her questions. Elle kept up with their vigorous inquisitions as best she could; Finnian and Eirnin were both talking a mile a minute in their eagerness to learn all they could about her. She noticed Gareth leaving the room, presumably to escort the Prime Minister to England's office, and tried to catch his attention. He cast a smile in her direction, mouthing 'I'll be right back' as he walked away. Elle sighed and, in the next moment, found herself being led out the back door with Northern Ireland on one arm and the Republic of Ireland on the other. She turned her attention back to what they were saying.

The questions kept coming. Did she like music? They did, and they often played duets! Would she like to hear one now? Their fiddle and tin whistle were still in the rose garden; they could easily fetch the instruments! What about singing? Did she like singing? They _loved_ singing and would be happy to teach her a few of their favorite songs! Could she dance? No? Well, their dances weren't so difficult! She just _had_ to let them show her a few steps!

It went on like that until Elle found herself helpless to do anything but grin right along with them. As Gareth had said, they were very talkative and extremely high energy. She was exhausted just from _listening_ to them. All of their sentences seemed to end in question marks and exclamation points, never periods. Periods implied full stops, which Finnian and Eirnin seemed incapable of. They were constantly in motion, trying to be excellent hosts and keep her entertained. They made good on their offers to play music for her and sing to her and teach her how to dance. When Elle was too tired to keep up with them any longer, they sat her down and regaled her with stories about their family.

The anecdotes—which were all very amusing—got her thinking about the one brother she had yet to meet: Scotland. Where was he? What was he _really_ like? She'd heard him portrayed as both Scotland the Horribly Rebellious Nation and Iagan the Rowdy but Lovable Brother and she wondered which was the truth. Perhaps it was neither, perhaps it was both. She wouldn't know until she saw him in person and got a chance to speak with him. For now, she was content to lie in the grass and listen as Eirnin told her a story entitled 'The Day Arthur Misplaced His Very Favorite Tea Cosy.'

"It's a tale of love, loss, and second chances," Finnian whispered. "I think you'll like it!"

Elle laughed so hard she nearly forgot to breathe.

* * *

><p><strong>Next chapter will be England's POV. <strong>


	3. Destruction and Dysfunctional Brothers

**Chapter Three! Time to get Arthur's perspective on all of this. We'll follow him from the point at which we last saw him in the previous chapter.**

**The rating has been raised just to be safe for this and future chapters.**

* * *

><p>After drinking his tea and leaving the kitchen, Arthur had immediately gone upstairs to his bedroom and begun preparing for his meeting with the Prime Minister. A quick shower had done wonders for him—he'd felt instantly refreshed and more aware—and putting on a new suit had sharpened and focused his mind. He'd brushed his teeth and coiffed his hair to perfection before grabbing a necktie and heading back downstairs toward his office. His journey from the kitchen to his bedroom had passed in a sort of frantic haze, but he was calmer now and quite a bit more conscious of his surroundings.<p>

A number of picture frames hung in the hallway that led from Arthur's room to the stairs and, as he passed them, he noticed that most—if not all—of the glass covering the photographs had been damaged. The frames had been in fine condition during his last stay at the UK House, so they must have been broken at some point within the past week. If Arthur had had any doubts about who to blame for the cracked glass, they were quickly laid to rest by the little Scottish flags that had been stuck into the empty spaces between the frames. _Come now, Iagan. Really, _Arthur thought with a sigh. _This is just obnoxious. _He shook his head and pressed on, trying not to let his irritation get the best of him. It was only some damaged picture frames, after all. He had more important things to think about.

Arthur descended the stairs, eyes on his feet as he pondered his upcoming meeting. One hand clutched the necktie he had grabbed but had yet to put on while the other trailed along the banister, guiding his descent. He was in the midst of mentally cataloging issues important enough to warrant the Prime Minister's visit to the UK House when the banister abruptly stopped and his fingers were left groping at open air. Frowning, Arthur looked toward the wooden railing. His eyes widened when he saw the jagged, splintered remains of what had once been a finely-crafted piece. It looked as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, smashing it to bits and ending it four steps short of the bottom of the staircase. Bewildered, Arthur looked up and around himself. He was horrified by what he saw.

The destruction encompassed the foyer and the front sitting room. Furniture had been overturned, end tables had been chopped to pieces, and light fixtures of all kinds had been utterly destroyed. A few bookcases had been reduced to kindling and some of Arthur's favorite books had been torn to shreds; loose pages and empty bindings lay strewn across the floor. A dozen or so paintings had been heartlessly ripped from their frames and thrown aside while other objects of varying ages and degrees of importance had been broken completely. Some floor tiles and a few sections of the walls had been damaged, but the windows seemed to have suffered most. A good number of them had been shattered, carpeting the floor with oblong shards of glass.

It looked like a warzone. That in and of itself was enough to make Arthur angry, but what _really_ incensed him was the ridiculous amount of Scottish flags that decorated the wreckage. St. Andrew's Cross had been draped over the remnants of furniture, stretched across open spaces that had once been windows, and painted—_painted!_—on all available surfaces. The workmen were trying their hardest to clean up and put everything back into its proper place, but a complete restoration would probably be impossible.

Arthur was now very glad that he had brought Elle in through the kitchen. The back of the house had been spared from the damage caused by his rampaging brother and had managed to create a positive first impression. If Elle had seen this… _She would have turned and run and I wouldn't have blamed her, _Arthur thought. His blood was pounding in his ears, his fists were clenched at his sides, and he was feeling very, _very_ fratricidal. He hadn't been so livid—so completely and mindlessly enraged—in quite some time. He wasn't entirely sure how to rid himself of the anger, but using Scotland as a punching bag seemed like a good place to start. Arthur turned, prepared to march to his brother's room and carry out his plan, but a firm hand landed on his arm, gripping tight and holding him in place. He looked backward over his shoulder, glaring at the owner of said hand.

"Mrs. Cooper," Arthur hissed through gritted teeth, "release me _at once_. I have business to attend to."

"Yes, dear," she said agreeably, "in your office, not upstairs."

"I beg to differ," he retorted, gesturing to the destruction around them. "Have you not _seen_ this? My brother is a menace and must be taught a lesson. This is _not_ behavior befitting of a country."

"Teach him a lesson, you say?" Mrs. Cooper mused. "Just how do you intend to do that? Words have no effect, as you well know, and beating him would do nothing but inspire further rebellion. Leave him alone, England. He's recognized his mistake and locked himself away for the time being. He doesn't need you barging in and riling him up again."

Arthur grudgingly admitted that she had a point. He allowed himself to be led across the glass-strewn foyer, down a hallway, and to his office. Scotland had done some damage there, too. The workmen had replaced all of the broken furniture with new pieces and reorganized Arthur's paperwork for him, but they hadn't managed to remove the giant Flag of Scotland that had been painted across the back wall. Arthur stared at it for a moment, certain that he could feel his blood boiling within him, before calmly shaking off Mrs. Cooper's hand and aiming himself toward Scotland's room once more. Mrs. Cooper quickly caught him by the shirt collar and dragged him back to his office.

"Oh, don't be like that," she clucked. "You won't even have to look at the flag; you'll have your back to it the entire time."

"Yes," Arthur agreed, taking a seat behind his desk, "but I'll know it's _there_, and that does not make me very happy."

"There isn't much that does," Mrs. Cooper sighed, looking at him sadly. She noticed the necktie in his hand. "Would you like me to help you with that?"

"No, no, it's fine," Arthur assured her. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly through his nose as he reigned in his emotions. "_I'm_ fine, Mrs. Cooper. Really."

"Are you sure, England dear?" she asked. "You certainly don't look it."

He felt a smile—unbidden and completely unwarranted—rise to his lips at her concern. As Steward of the UK House, she held quite a bit of power. She was responsible for keeping the place running properly; all other UK House employees reported either directly or indirectly to her. Despite the amount of work on her plate, the woman had taken it upon herself to mother and care for England and his brothers. It was not something that she was required to do, but it was certainly something that she _wanted_ to do. Arthur truly appreciated her kindness. Her familiarity with the five siblings had its limits, though: she refused to call them by their human names out of sheer respect for who and what they were. Consequently, they respectfully and affectionately addressed her as Mrs. Cooper. It was a fine system and had been in place for many years.

"I'll be alright," Arthur said with the best smile he could manage.

Mrs. Cooper looked skeptical, but nodded. "I'll be on my way, then. Have a good meeting with the Prime Minister."

Arthur thanked her and she left. A quick glance at the clock on his desk told him that he still had a few minutes before his appointment with Mr. Cameron. He began to shuffle through some of the paperwork that sat before him, doing his level best to ignore the flag painted on the wall at his back. It was no use. Despite his best efforts, his mind kept returning to the havoc that Scotland had wrought upon the UK House. What little information Arthur _did_ manage to read and internalize from the reports on his desk only increased his frustration. _Can nothing be simple anymore? _he wondered, frowning at an account of recent foreign affairs. _Has the world gone mad?_ There was a knock on his office door. He looked up with a sigh, knowing well what that meant. It was time.

"Come in," he called.

The door opened to reveal not the Prime Minister but Wales. England frowned at his brother.

"You're not Mr. Cameron," he said.

"Keenly observed, _brawd_," Gareth smirked, stepping into the room and closing the door behind himself. At Arthur's frown, he held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Calm down. I just want to speak with you for a moment. The Prime Minister is waiting outside in the hall, but he assured me that he's in no hurry. You'll have your meeting soon enough, Arthur. I'm only asking for a little of your time."

Still frowning, England dissected his brother's statement. Gareth had called him _brawd_—Welsh for 'brother'—which was usually a good sign. The word was sometimes used to tease or scold, but it was always used with affection. Gareth had also addressed him as 'Arthur' rather than 'England.' Among the siblings, human names were regarded as terms of endearment and using them in anger was considered unacceptable. In light of that, Arthur decided that whatever Gareth had to say was probably innocent in nature and would be fine to hear.

"Have a seat, then," England said, gesturing to a chair. He scowled as a thought occurred to him. "If you're here to defend Scotland, you might as well leave. There's no excuse for what he's done."

"You shouldn't be so hard on him," Wales sighed, taking a seat opposite his brother. "He's trying his best."

"Oh, yes, I can tell," said Arthur, sarcasm dripping from every word. He pointed at the wall behind him and gestured toward the door, indicating the destruction that lay beyond it. "And I agree with you completely, if by 'trying his best' you mean 'trying his best to make me absolutely furious.' He tore up the house!"

"Yes, and you know why he did it just as well as I do," Gareth replied. "Iagan's always been the most uninhibitedly passionate among the five of us and he's always been more inclined to act on his people's desires. You know how it is: he hears them talking and feels what they're feeling, but he knows he can't give them what they want so he just bottles everything up until things like _this_ happen."

"Yes, I _do_ know how it is," Arthur retorted hotly. "I'm a country as well, in case you've forgotten. I feel my people's wants and needs just as keenly as Scotland feels the wants and needs of his own people. The difference is that I don't let myself get out of hand. _I_ control myself."

"I'm sorry to tell you this, Arthur, but Iagan isn't you," said Gareth.

"Clearly," England huffed.

"We've all been on edge without a Country Keeper, but Scotland's fared the worst," Wales reminded. "Try to be a bit more understanding. Having said that, let's move on to what I actually came here to discuss: Elle. You really didn't tell her anything, did you?"

Arthur stiffened. "What did you say to her?"

In truth, he really _hadn't_ told her anything—or, to be fair, he hadn't told her _much_. The information he'd given her had barely scratched the surface of all she would eventually need to know if she became the Country Keeper. The worst part—and he recognized it as the worst part—was that he'd done so on purpose. He had intentionally kept things from her and crammed what should have been a month-long selection process into less than an hour.

"Things that I thought she needed to know," Gareth replied. He looked steadily at Arthur, holding his gaze. "I informed her that you were in the wrong. I told her that you'd completely skipped over the interview process and ignored rules that have been in place for centuries. Most importantly, I told her that nothing is certain and that she might not be the next Country Keeper."

"Oh? And how did that go?" Arthur asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. _She promised she wouldn't think any less of me or run away, no matter what happened. She promised!_ "How did she react?"

Gareth shrugged. "I thought she took it rather well. She was disappointed, I think, in you and in herself for believing you, but she took everything in stride. She's a good choice for Keeper, even if you didn't go about selecting her in the usual way. I worry for her, though. She got into a cab with you even though she barely knew you. She's far too trusting."

"She's living out a fantasy," England refuted. "That's the only reason she's here. She's seen that ridiculous cartoon and she thinks that we're all like the characters in it. She got in the cab because she thinks she knows me. She obviously doesn't."

"You should have told her that," Wales scolded. "Allowing Elle to believe that this is some sort of dream or fairy tale is cruel, Arthur. This is reality, and I'm not sure she fully understands that. You took advantage of her."

"I had to," Arthur muttered. He slapped a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. _Stupid, stupid! _"I mean…"

"England," his brother growled, face darkening. "The truth. _Now_."

Arthur nodded. Wales was giving him The Look; it would be best to obey before things got ugly. England explained how, in the week since Albrecht's funeral, he'd traveled to every major city within his borders in search of the next Country Keeper. He'd used the 'dropped newspaper' technique at each stop. A total of fifty different Good Samaritans had made an effort to return the paper to him. Of that fifty, only twenty had stayed long enough to hear his 'change your life' proposition and of that twenty, only one had taken the challenge.

"Every time I tried to explain who I was and what their job would be, they walked away," Arthur said.

"With good reason," Gareth told him. "They probably thought you were insane. You aren't supposed to mention _any_ of that until they've gotten to know you!"

"You think I don't know that?" Arthur hissed. "I don't have time to be conducting interviews, Wales—_we_ don't have time! No less than three candidates have already been put forth; they've gotten a head start. We have to begin campaigning soon, or we'll lose the election for certain. If you think back, you'll recall that I was placed in charge of finding the European candidate, but not before I begged and pleaded for the opportunity. The other nations look down upon me now, and with good reason. Albrecht Bieler was killed within my borders—_mine_! It's my fault he's dead! I should have known it was going to happen; I should have been able to stop it. I failed, don't you understand? I failed and I have to redeem myself. This is the only way to do that."

He was breathing hard and suppressing tears, caught up in a maelstrom of emotions. On the one hand, he was dealing with the death of a very dear friend. It was a death that he blamed himself for, a death he believed that he could have prevented. On the other hand, he was feeling pressured and judged by the other countries. They hadn't said anything directly to him, but he'd heard the whispers of disapproval and blame that had been aimed his way. As if that wasn't enough, he was also dealing with Scotland's rebellious behavior and heading the search for the European candidate for Country Keeper. It was so much—too much—to handle. He was just barely holding himself together.

"Oh, Arthur," Gareth said sadly. He abandoned his seat and circled the desk so that he stood at his brother's side. "Is that what you really think? You couldn't have prevented Albrecht's death—no one could have—and no one blames you for it. Please believe me."

Arthur kept his head down, but glanced up at his brother through his fringe. "I can't change how I feel."

"No, I suppose you can't," Gareth sighed. He tugged at the necktie that Arthur held tightly in one fist and gently pulled it free. "Let's get this on you. I'm glad you told me how you're feeling, _brawd,_ but you must understand that these thoughts and emotions do not excuse the way you've treated Elle. She deserves to know everything so that she can make an informed decision about whether or not the life of a Country Keeper is right for her. If you hurt her or deceive her again, there will be consequences."

"Oh?" Arthur queried, lifting his chin to give Wales better access to his neck. He had no idea why he was allowing his brother to tie his necktie for him, but he was. "And what would those be?"

"Well, you know that I like her," Gareth said, looping the necktie around his brother's neck and beginning a Windsor Knot. "Finnian and Eirnin seem to have taken a liking to her, too."

"Are you surprised?" Arthur asked, raising a brow. "She's a living, breathing human female. She's just their type."

"Be fair, Arthur," Gareth admonished. "She's a nice girl and she's very pretty."

"Very plain, you mean," England muttered.

Wales frowned but continued, "I'm certain Iagan will like her."

"Conveniently, female and breathing is his type as well," England smirked.

"The point is," Gareth said forcefully, "that by bringing Elle here, you've given her four new protectors. Any future dishonesty from you will result in punishment from us. Harm her in another way, and you will be subjected to the same." He tightened the tie, sliding the knot just close enough to the base of Arthur's throat that it restricted his breathing. He took England's face in his hands, forcing eye contact. "Do you understand me?"

England's eyes widened, but he nodded and the tie was instantly loosened. His face, still caught between Gareth's palms, was turned gently from side to side while his brother hummed speculatively. Finally, Wales seemed to reach a conclusion.

"You claim to be in such great control of yourself, but you're really not much better off than Iagan is. You need help, _brawd._ It's okay to ask for it." Gareth said softly. He patted Arthur's cheek and released him. "I'll send you some tea and biscuits."

Then he was out the door. Arthur stared after his brother, absently loosening his tie. Gareth's behavior had been unexpected, but not unusual. He was always like that: harsh but gentle, demanding but lenient, domineering but incredibly compassionate. _And he calls __**me**__ contradictory,_ Arthur snorted, recalling his brother's oft-stated complaint. Above all else, Gareth was protective, so it wasn't surprising that he'd taken it upon himself to look after Elle in the same way he looked after his brothers. _I'll have to be more careful from now on,_ England decided. Gareth's threat was not an empty one; Arthur knew he'd receive the promised thrashing if he put even one toe out of line. He shook himself from his thoughts and put on a politician's smile as the door opened once more.

"Ah, Mr. Cameron," Arthur said, infusing his voice with warmth and cheer. "So good to see you."

The meeting commenced. About halfway through, Mrs. Cooper entered the office bearing a tray laden with hot tea and warm biscuits. Her eyes shone as she informed England and the Prime Minister that the biscuits were fresh from the oven and had been 'made with love.' Arthur popped one into his mouth and asked her to pass both his compliments and his thanks on to Gareth. By the end of the appointment, Arthur and the Prime Minister had discussed everything from the economy to foreign relations. They'd also talked about The Dilemma, otherwise known as Scotland's bid for independence, and they were in agreement: Scotland would not be allowed to leave the UK. Period. Feeling accomplished, England led Mr. Cameron to the front door and bade the man a fond farewell.

The foyer had been cleaned up quite a bit since Arthur had last seen it. The broken glass had been cleared away and new windows were in the process of being installed. The sitting room, too, had been much improved. All damaged items had been removed and replaced; it looked quite similar to the way it had prior to Scotland's rampage. The flags that had been painted on the walls were still there, but Arthur expected that they'd be gone by the following morning. The workmen were making great progress.

"I have to say I'm a little offended," said a voice from behind Arthur. "You've been home for a few hours, but you haven't said 'hello' to your favorite brother? Shame on you, England. Where are your manners?" There was a pause in which he could practically _feel_ the other's sly smirk. "You must have forgotten them when you saw the redecorating. Tell me, do you like what I've done with the place?"

Arthur's hands curled into fists at his sides. "Scotland."

He turned to find his brother standing on the staircase, leaning casually against what remained of the banister. As expected, Scotland was sporting a smug expression that tilted his thin lips into a smirk and drew his bushy brows low over his bright green eyes. His square jaw was lined with stubble, accentuating the sharpness of his already angular features, and the mop of chestnut hair that sat atop his head was in complete disarray. He'd forgone clothing—a bold, though not unusual, choice for him—but had wrapped a sheet around his waist for modesty. One hand was pressed against the sheet, keeping it in place, while the other held a tumbler of Scotch. He raised the glass toward Arthur in mock salute before taking a swig of the alcohol.

"Do you even remember what it's like to be sober?" Arthur queried, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

"Oh, you don't want me sober," said Scotland, twirling his hand and watching the little whirlpools that appeared in his glass. "I'd be really clever then. Everything I've done so far—ruining furniture, breaking windows, and so on—I've thought of with my brain running at half speed. Imagine the trouble I'd cause at full capacity. Scary, isn't it? So don't scold me for drinking, England. I'm doing it for you."

"Are you expecting me to thank you?" Arthur asked incredulously. He folded his arms across his chest, frowning at his brother. "Alright then. Thank you, Scotland, _so_ very much for destroying the UK House while absolutely smashed. Your drunkenness is certainly a blessing to us all."

"It certainly is," Iagan agreed, ignoring the fact that England's comment had been bitingly sarcastic. He downed the rest of his Scotch and lobbed the empty glass at his brother. "And don't you forget that."

The tumbler landed a few inches to England's right and shattered as soon as it made contact with the floor, spraying shards of glass in every direction. Arthur frowned at the mess, realizing that it had been a demonstration. Even with alcohol in his system, Iagan had excellent aim; he could have hit Arthur if he'd wanted to. Scotland wasn't completely drunk at the moment, but he wasn't entirely sober, either. He'd taken himself to that delicate stage where everything was dull and hazy, but he still had almost full control over his actions. England knew that stage well. He'd taken himself there many times before in order to drown out the influencing voices of his people and buy himself a moment of peace. Strange as it seemed, Iagan was being responsible by keeping himself from sobering up completely. It was the only way he could keep himself in check in the absence of a Keeper.

"Fine. Stay drunk then. I don't care," Arthur said. He frowned at his brother's state—or, rather, lack—of attire. "But _please_ put some clothes on. We have a guest.

Iagan raised a brow.

"A _female_ guest."

"Really, now?" Scotland asked. A slow, sly grin curled his lips upward. "That's my very favorite kind."

"Don't get any ideas," England warned. "She's my chosen candidate for Country Keeper. She deserves your respect."

"And she'll have it," Iagan said, turning to go back upstairs. "I'm not a monster, England. I know how to treat a woman."

Arthur nodded. "Yes, at least you know that much. I expect to see you in a nice shirt and pants come suppertime."

"No," Iagan shook his head. "No pants. A kilt." He looked over his shoulder, tossing a devious grin in his brother's direction. "Much sexier."

England rolled his eyes, but said nothing. If Scotland felt inclined to look 'sexy' for a dinner with a guest list that included his four brothers and a girl he'd never met, that was his prerogative. The reminder of food made Arthur's stomach rumble with hunger. He pulled a face and rested a hand over his loudly-complaining belly. _To the kitchen, _he decided. He didn't plan to ruin his appetite by snacking, but it wouldn't hurt to see what would be served for the evening meal. He entered the kitchen to find Mrs. Cooper and two other UK House employees slicing vegetables and seasoning meat. Gareth was with them as well, making polite conversation and helping with the preparations.

"England dear!" Mrs. Cooper said, smiling when she saw him. "How was your meeting with the Prime Minister?"

Arthur was about to reply when his mobile phone began buzzing in his pocket. He smiled apologetically and removed himself to the living room to conduct his conversation in private.

"Hello?" he said, pressing the phone to his ear.

"England!" Arthur winced at the volume of the other's voice. "Dude, I just got your text! You picked one of my people? Man, that's awesome!"

"America," Arthur said wearily. "I sent you that text hours ago."

"I know. Sorry, dude, I was in a meeting. I'm out now, though, and—oh man, I can't believe it! One of my people as Country Keeper! That hasn't happened since, like, right after the Civil War!"

_With good reason, _thought Arthur. "Look, I understand your excitement, but could you _please_ stop shouting? If you keep it up, I may lose my hearing."

"Yeah, sure, no problem," America said, obviously making a conscious effort to lower the volume of his voice. "So tell me more about your pick for Country Keeper. Your text just said 'Found the new Keeper. She's one of yours.' Who is she?"

"Her name is Gabrielle Jane Vasquez. She's from Fredericksburg, Vir—"

"Elle? Oh my God, she's awesome!" America interrupted, returning to his shouting. "I knew she was visiting you, but, man, what are the odds, huh? It's pretty hilarious, you picking one of my people. Weren't you supposed to pick a European candidate? I know I'm bad at geography, but last time I checked, I wasn't part of Europe, dude."

"And you still aren't," said Arthur, "but it's my responsibility to pick whomever I believe is most qualified to be the next Country Keeper. Elle just so happens to be that person. She's within my borders, so she's a valid choice."

"Okay. Cool. Can I talk to her?"

"She's outside with Ireland at the moment," England replied. He was standing near a window and could see Elle and his brothers near the rose garden. "It looks like Eirnin is telling her a story and I think Finnian is braiding her hair."

"Story-swapping? Hair-braiding? Dude, are you guys having a slumber party?"

"No!" Arthur exclaimed. "Of course not! We—"

"You totally are!" America crowed. "And I'm definitely coming over. I'll fly one of my military jets—those things are fast!—and be at your place in a few hours. How does that sound?"

"Alfred, I don't think—"

"Great! See you soon!"

"Wait!" But the call had already been disconnected. Arthur sighed and pocketed his mobile. "Idiot."

He reentered the kitchen to find that preparations for dinner were progressing nicely. He also noticed that there was someone new in the room. The newcomer had silver-gray hair and a well-trimmed beard of the same color. Arthur knew the man was just over eighty years old, but others might peg him as up to twenty years younger; a lifetime of exercise and proper diet had kept him healthy and strong. The man turned toward England, his blue eyes twinkling with familiar warmth.

"Arthur!" he said. "There you are. Good to see you."

"Mr. Robert Hall," Arthur grinned, shaking his old friend's hand. "It's been too long."

They'd first met some years ago, when the position of Country Keeper had last been open. Arthur had been impressed by the young Robert Hall's ambition, cleverness, and tenacity. After several meetings and interviews, Arthur had revealed the truth to Hall and offered him a chance to run for the position of Keeper. Hall had eagerly accepted. Unfortunately, Austria and Hungary had jointly put forth another candidate—Albrecht Bieler—before England could publicize his own nomination. There had only been room for one European candidate, and Hall had simply not made the cut. Arthur had maintained a friendship with Robert Hall, however, and even now considered the man to be one of his closest friends.

"I heard about what happened to Albrecht," Robert said, shaking his head sadly. "Such a tragedy. I imagine you'll be looking for a new Keeper now. Am I in the running for that?

"No. Sorry," said England with an apologetic smile. "Unfortunately, the job is meant for someone a bit younger than you."

"A _lot_ younger, you mean," Robert chuckled. "It's alright, Arthur. You can say it: I'm getting old. That doesn't mean I can't help you, though. I'm always ready to serve my country."

"I appreciate that," Arthur smiled. "Your patriotism is very admirable."

"Mr. Hall came by a few times this past week," Mrs. Cooper said from where she stood across the room. "He wanted to check on you, make sure you were alright. I didn't know where you'd gone, so I let him poke around your office a bit to see if he could find an itinerary or something like that. Needless to say, he never found anything."

"Sorry," Arthur apologized. "I was out looking for the next Keeper."

"Did you find one?" Robert asked.

"Yes," Arthur replied. "Would you like to stay for dinner? You could meet her then."

Robert grinned. "I'd be delighted."

A few hours later, Arthur found himself regretting both that invitation and his decision to bring Elle to the UK House. The trouble began with what England could confidently dub The Worst Seating Arrangement in History; with Iagan on his left and Gareth on his right, there was simply no other name for it. The round dining room table, originally selected to promote conversation and prevent the brothers from arguing over who should sit at the table's head, was the source of the problem. Everyone sat down without thinking: Arthur, then Gareth, then Robert, then Elle, then Finnian, then Eirnin, and, finally, Iagan. England immediately saw the potential volatility of their positioning, but ultimately—_stupidly_, he told himself—decided not to bring it up.

The meal got off to a pleasant start. Everyone seemed to be in high spirits and the food was absolutely delicious. Even Scotland was behaving himself, though that was mostly thanks to Elle. After staring at Iagan in silence for a long moment, she had commented that he was by far the 'manliest' of the five brothers. Amidst loud protests from Finnian and Eirnin and disapproving looks from Arthur and Gareth, Elle had blushed and revised her statement, calling Iagan the 'most rugged' brother instead. That had placated the four offended countries and left Scotland smug and preening.

Things continued to progress quite nicely. Upon request, Robert and Elle each recounted the circumstances under which they had met Arthur. Both stories held their audience's attention and inspired many questions and polite inquiries. Arthur was pleasantly surprised by the cordiality and restraint his brothers were displaying. He should have known it couldn't last, but he would never have expected the catalyst for chaos to be an entirely innocent comment from his candidate for Keeper.

"This is really fun," Elle grinned, gesturing to her companions and the room at large. "It's like we're the Knights of the Round Table or something. We even have our own King Arthur."

"Yes, Elle, but don't confuse the two," Iagan said, fixing her with a serious look. "The King Arthur of legend is a great man with many admirable qualities. Ours is a despotic tyrant who enjoys repressing others and keeping them in bondage."

"Shut up, Scotland," Arthur hissed. "Behave yourself."

"You see what I mean?" Iagan said, directing the comment at Elle. He reached for his glass and calmly looked at England. "You want me to behave? Make me. You're so very good at it, _King_ Arthur."

Arthur growled and tensed, prepared to attack his brother if the idiot said even one more word. A hand landed on the back of his neck, pressing him down into his seat and keeping him still.

"Let it go, Arthur," Gareth warned. "And Iagan? Really, please shut up." Smiling, Wales turned to his other two brothers. "Finnian, Eirnin, you may speak if you'd like."

They grinned. Of course they wanted to speak!

"Well, Finnian's been talking to me a lot recently—" Eirnin began.

"And he's actually been listening!" Finnian added excitedly.

"—and the things he's said have actually made a lot of sense! For once," Eirnin added, elbowing his brother teasingly. "He's been talking about us living together again!"

Arthur swore he could feel the blood draining from his face. "L-living together? You mean..?"

"As a united Ireland!" Finnian confirmed, slinging an arm around Eirnin's shoulders. He grinned when the gesture was returned. "Doesn't that sound like great _craic_?"

England was shocked. _Northern Ireland wants to leave the UK?_ He'd come to count Eirnin as one of his greatest supporters and was deeply hurt by the thought of losing such loyalty. _If both he and Scotland go, what am I left with? Wales? _Arthur glanced at Gareth, who was shaking his head and looking as though he deeply regretted giving Finnian and Eirnin permission to speak. _He's always stood by me, but can I count on him to do so in the future? _Arthur wasn't sure what to think.

Scotland laughed heartily, amused by the turn of events. "Aye, Finn, that _does_ sound like fun! A united Ireland, an independent Scotland, and an independent Wales—just imagine!

"I'm sorry," said Arthur, his expression darkening even as his heart was breaking. "Did you say an independent _Wales_?"

"Oh," Iagan smirked. "He didn't tell you? Well, shame on me for ruining the surprise!"

"Arthur, listen to me," Gareth insisted. "It's my people who want independence—I can't help that. Try not to worry; only about ten percent of the population is clamoring to be free from the UK. That's not so bad. And I promise they won't make a move until after they see what happens with Scotland. So you see? I'm not leaving."

"I don't want to hear it," Arthur growled. He turned back to Eirnin. "How do your people feel about leaving the UK?"

"Oh," Northern Ireland said, his face falling at the question. "They don't like that idea very much—at least, not the majority of them."

England nodded, his expression smug. "And why would they? Your people aren't stupid; they know they're better off where they are. They won't allow themselves to be dragged into the financial ruin that unification would cause."

Finnian's smile suddenly evaporated. He removed his arm from around Eirnin's shoulders and leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at Arthur. England stared back, unperturbed by the murderous look in his brother's eyes. _It's about time someone wiped that stupid grin off your face, _Arthur thought. He felt no remorse for breaking up his Irish brothers' camaraderie. If making Finnian look like an idiot won Eirnin back to his side, Arthur would do so time and again.

"If you're trying to say something, come out and say it," the Republic of Ireland challenged with a glare.

"You know exactly what I'm saying," Arthur said evenly. He leaned forward a bit, grinning nastily. "Oh, perhaps you don't. I only meant that your economic crisis demonstrates what a _spectacular_ _failure_ you are in matters that concern money. I had assumed that you were intelligent enough to understand, but that was my mistake. Your intellect must be even less developed than I thought it was."

He smirked as he watched his brother's face grow red with rage. The Irish financial crisis was an extremely sore subject that England ordinarily wouldn't have touched with a ten foot pole. At the moment, though, it seemed like perfect ammunition. Finnian gave a sudden yell and leaped from his chair, attempting to scramble across the table to get at Arthur. Eirnin caught him by the shoulders before he could get very far.

"Finn, calm down!" Northern Ireland commanded. "He's just—"

"Stop defending him!" Finnian screamed, delivering a powerful right hook to his brother's jaw. "You _always_ defend him! I'm tired of it!"

Freed from Eirnin's grasp, he made a successful leap across the table and wrapped his hands around Arthur's throat. Eyes wide, Arthur fought back. He clawed at his brother's hands and, when that didn't work, delivered a few solid blows to Finnian's abdomen. The pain was enough to distract the Republic of Ireland and cause him to loosen his grip. Arthur shoved his brother roughly, dislodging the fingers that were wrapped around his neck and sending Finnian sprawling. The sound of his brother's skull striking the table was almost—_almost_—enough to make Arthur feel remorseful. He concentrated on taking measured breaths and massaging his sore throat even as he watched Eirnin drag Finnian across the table by his ankles. The Republic of Ireland was pulled right off the table and dropped unceremoniously to the floor. Then, just as he seemed to be regaining his bearings, Northern Ireland leapt at him and attacked. The two quickly became a snarling, cursing jumble of limbs. They traded blows and screamed at each other in Irish Gaelic, completely oblivious to everyone else in the room.

"And so ends all hope for the unification of Ireland," Iagan sighed, sipping unaffectedly at his Scotch. "Such a shame. If it goes on like this, Eirnin will never be free of you."

"Neither will you, Scotland," Arthur said. "Ever. You won't have your independence; I won't give it to you. And if you try any more stupid stunts, I _will_ crush you."

Iagan raised a brow, "Is that a threat?"

"No," England shook his head, frowning seriously. "It's a promise."

"Hmm," Iagan mused. He downed the rest of his Scotch and rolled his shoulders back to loosen them. "Well alright then."

He leaped from his chair, tackling Arthur to the ground. They fell in a tangle of limbs, kicking and biting and punching and clawing as they fought for dominance. They hit the ground hard and rolled for a moment before stopping. Arthur then found himself in a very vulnerable position: lying flat on his back while Scotland towered above him, smirking and cracking his knuckles. Scotland drew back a fist, preparing to deliver a punch; England involuntarily squeezed his eyes shut. The first blow drove Arthur's head back against the floor so hard that he saw stars behind his closed eyelids. The second caught the side of his face, causing his teeth to cut across the inside of his cheek. The third, fourth, and fifth blurred together as his mouth filled with blood.

Arthur forced his eyes open. The pain made everything a bit hazy, but he could clearly see Scotland's malicious grin. The idiot was _enjoying_ himself. _Enough of this,_ Arthur growled inwardly. He kicked out suddenly and sharply, surprising Iagan and dislodging him. Looking shocked and disoriented, Scotland fell to the side. He was given no time to collect his thoughts. England was on him in the next moment, sitting on his chest to hold him in place and letting punches fly with reckless abandon. After everything that had happened, it felt rather therapeutic to dole out punishment and cause a little pain… at least until an angry tirade of Welsh got through to him. Arthur froze mid-punch, blinking down at Scotland's bloodied face while Gareth's rant continued. He mentally translated what he could, wincing at the harshness and vulgarity of the words that his normally docile brother was shouting. Wales was positively livid.

"Bloody irresponsible…damned _foolish_…imbecilic…moronic..!" Gareth bellowed, switching to stilted English as his fury slowly cooled. He grabbed Arthur and flung him to the side, off of and away from Iagan. "No control…can't believe…stupidity…disown you…idiotic bastards!"

Wales continued to seethe and fume for several more minutes. Arthur stayed as still as possible so as not to become the sole target of his brother's wrath. He allowed only his eyes to wander and quietly took stock of the room. The table was a mess of food and overturned dishes, evidence of the dinner that had gone horribly wrong. A few chairs had been toppled during the scuffles, but they seemed to be undamaged. The same could not be said of the combatants. Finnian had been dragged off to one corner of the room and was being guarded by no less than four men. His face was smeared with red, his shirt was torn and bloodied, and bruises were forming over almost every inch of visible skin. He was glaring at Eirnin, who was glaring right back. Eirnin, too, was bloodied and bruised; his left eye was black and swollen shut. He was in another corner and was also being guarded by a quartet of workmen. Elle, Robert, and Mrs. Cooper occupied a third corner of the room. They all wore very different expressions: Mrs. Cooper was frowning disapprovingly, Robert appeared quite bewildered, and Elle looked like she was terrified. Arthur curled in on himself, feeling suddenly guilty and ashamed.

"Alright," Gareth said, finally calm enough to speak coherently in English. He glared at his brothers. "How badly are you all hurt? In other words, is your stupidity going to affect your people? Any potentially fatal wounds need to be reported _now_. Scotland?"

"I'm fine. Just a broken nose," Iagan said, wincing at both the pain and the noise as he shoved it back into place, "and some cuts and bruises, nothing serious. My people will be fine."

Gareth nodded and turned. "England?"

"Oh, um," Arthur muttered, taking quick stock of his own injuries. "Same for me, nothing serious. I've got a split lip and a cut on the inside of my mouth that's bleeding pretty nicely, but that's the worst of it. It's mostly just bruises and scrapes."

Finnian and Eirnin replied similarly: they were bruised and bleeding, but they definitely weren't dying. Satisfied that his brothers hadn't managed to mortally wound themselves or each other, Gareth nodded. He looked back at Arthur, expression flat and serious.

"I've called a car around for Mr. Hall," Wales said. "You should see him to the door."

Arthur nodded and forced himself to his feet. Walking was rather painful. He started off with a sort of hop-shuffle until he managed to achieve a somewhat steady rhythm. He felt exhausted and ancient; it seemed to take an eternity to reach the corner in which Robert, Elle, and Mrs. Cooper were standing. He noticed that Elle still looked frightened. Arthur tried to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, but she shook her head and jerked away from him. His heart sank. She wasn't just scared, she was scared of _him_.

"I…I'm so sorry," England said sincerely. "What just happened shouldn't have…well, it _shouldn't have_ happened. It was immature and uncalled for. I'm sorry you had to see it. If you want to leave, I'll completely understand. And I won't be angry, I promise. Just say the word and I'll take you wherever you want to go. You can return to your old life and forget that any of this ever happened."

He waited for a response, but Elle gave none. She stared at him in silence, fear and uncertainty in her wide brown eyes. Mrs. Cooper put a motherly arm around the girl's shoulders.

"Give her some time to think it over," Mrs. Cooper suggested. "She's had a difficult day."

Arthur nodded and turned to Robert. "I believe there's a car waiting for you out front."

"Indeed," Robert agreed. He turned to Elle and squeezed her arm gently. "It was wonderful to meet you, my dear. I hope you decide to stay."

Then he turned and followed England out of the room. Arthur's mind was awhirl with hundreds of conflicting thoughts and emotions. He'd already accepted Elle as his Keeper. If she left now, he'd have no choice but to sever that connection. Elle would be perfectly fine and would experience no adverse affects, but England would be subjected to excruciating pain. _And you'd deserve it, too,_ he told himself. _What were you thinking, rushing into choosing a Keeper like that? Didn't you learn __**anything**__ the last time? _He winced, recalling how much severing his connection with Robert had hurt those many years ago. He couldn't force Elle to stay, not after seeing how terrified she was, but he hoped she'd choose to do so on her own. Then there was the matter of his brothers. The mention of a united Ireland, an independent Scotland, and an independent Wales had shaken Arthur badly. Did they all really hate him so much? Were they all so desperate to leave him?

"You're worried about something," Robert said. They were in the foyer now. "What is it?"

"My brothers," England replied.

"I could have guessed that," said Robert with a gentle, sympathetic smile. "What, specifically, about your brothers is bothering you?"

"They're all talking about independence and I'm afraid," England admitted candidly. "What if they really do leave? I'll be left alone and I've never wanted that, not ever. I've survived abandonment in the past, but to be deserted by my own brothers would break me. I need them, Robert, and they need me. Why don't they understand that? Suppose they do gain independence. What then? I won't be able to protect them anymore, and that terrifies me. I don't want to watch them be destroyed by an enemy or be terrorized by financial ruin—I won't! How can I make them see that?"

"You can't," Robert said sadly. They had migrated to the front steps and he could see the car that would take him home. "They'll have to come to that realization on their own. And they _will_, Arthur—I _know_ they will. They'll come to see how much you do for them, how much they need you. Give it time."

It wasn't what Arthur wanted to hear, but he accepted the advice with a nod. He embraced his old friend and thanked him for visiting. When Arthur attempted to apologize for the dinner debacle, Robert shushed him and said there was no need. Mr. Hall then climbed into the car that had been brought for him and waved goodbye, promising to visit again in the near future. As soon as Robert's car pulled away, another drove up to take its place. Arthur frowned. He really couldn't handle any more visitors right now. One of the vehicle's back doors opened and a tall blonde man carrying a red, white, and blue duffel bag climbed out. Before Arthur could process what was happening, the man was standing directly in front of him, arms spread wide as though he was expecting a hug.

"England!" America grinned, shouting in his customary fashion. He blinked and lowered his arms, frowning as he took in Arthur's injuries. "Dude, what happened?"

Arthur sighed, not really wanting to explain.

"Dinner," he said simply.

* * *

><p><strong>Back to Elle's POV next chapter. <strong>


	4. Staying?

**Hello everyone!**

**Wow, it's been a long time since I last updated! This chapter was actually a pain to write (and rewrite...and edit...and write again). The stars of this fic, lovely as they are, kept talking and bringing up new problems that I just couldn't ignore. This thing is _long_. ****I hope that at least partially makes up for it being so late.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><em>What am I doing here, what am I doing here, oh my <em>_**God**__ what am I doing here! _

The thought recycled itself in an endless loop, increasing her anxiety and pushing her toward hyperventilation. _What am I doing here?_ It was a good question—a damn good one—but she didn't know how to answer it, and it only led to more. How could she have thought for even _one second_ that getting into a cab with someone she barely knew was a good idea? How could she have thought that it would lead to something pleasant? How could she have been so _stupid_? Did it really only take a pair of green eyes, a handsome face, and a promise to change her life to banish her intelligence and convince her to throw caution to the wind? She'd ignored every warning about 'stranger danger' and tip on study abroad safety that she'd ever received. Her parents would kill her when they found out…assuming that the psychos that surrounded her didn't do the deed first.

Elle licked her lips and forced herself to steady her breathing. _If they'd wanted to kill you, they would have done it already._ That was what characters in movies always said, right? She'd be fine. She just had to get out of the house and back to her hotel. Then she could forget that any of this ever happened. She could forget Arthur the Personification of England—who, logically, shouldn't exist—and his wild story about Country Keepers. She could forget about his brothers, who were apparently as violent as they were attractive. She could forget the elegant civility, the gentle smiles, the raucous laughter, the boundless energy, and the quick-witted comments. She could pass it all off as a dream or hallucination. Elle nodded to herself. _Yeah, that could work. _

"Are you alright now, dear?" Mrs. Cooper asked. The kind woman was still at Elle's side, smiling encouragingly and rubbing gentle circles across her back. "I know that must have been terribly frightening for you."

_That's the understatement of the century, _Elle thought. She offered Mrs. Cooper a weak smile, trying to show that, yes, she was alright. The older woman frowned.

"No lying, dear," Mrs. Cooper admonished softly. She pulled Elle into a warm, motherly embrace. "Of course you're not alright. After that, how could you be? Oh, you probably thought the boys were completely harmless. They are, for the most part, and you must believe me when I say that they would never, ever hurt you. They really are quite gentle. They just…don't always get along with each other."

_No, wait, __**that**__ is the understatement of the century. _Arthur and his brothers clearly had issues. They couldn't even get through dinner without trying to murder each other. And if they couldn't get along with each other—if they were so violent that they could mindlessly cause their own brothers pain—what chance did she have? In Elle's mind, anyone who would beat a family member bloody was too dangerous to be around. She could easily see the brothers harming her in a fit of violence, no matter what Mrs. Cooper said.

"You can't really blame them for it," the Steward of the UK House continued. She was holding Elle at arm's length now. "There's so much history between them, so many years of anger and hurt, that it's a miracle they get along as well as they do."

"You call _this_ getting along?" Elle snorted, finally feeling compelled to say something. She pointed to Iagan, who was gingerly holding a handkerchief to his bleeding nose, and Eirnin, who was wincing as he touched his bruised jaw and blackened eye with diagnostic fingers, and Finnian, who was too busy glaring at Northern Ireland to bother with stopping the blood that was flowing from the gash above his right eyebrow. "That doesn't look like getting along to me."

"Well, you'll just have to trust me, then, dear," Mrs. Cooper said distractedly. She took on a serious expression. "Will you be alright if I leave you here for a few minutes?"

Elle felt a burst of panic at the thought of losing the company and protection of the only other true human being in the room, but she forced it down and, swallowing hard, nodded.

"Good," Mrs. Cooper smiled. She then turned and bellowed, "Ireland!'

Two pairs of panicked green eyes immediately flicked toward her.

"The Republic of," Mrs. Cooper specified, striding straight past Eirnin. He slumped against the wall and let out a sigh of relief as the Steward of the UK House barreled on toward his brother. "Stop bleeding on my clean floor!"

She frowned at Finnian and pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. He meekly accepted it and pressed it to his forehead, flinching as the fabric touched the open wound. His eyes never strayed from Mrs. Cooper's and Elle noted that, for the first time all evening, there was real fear in them. It wasn't fear of being struck or harmed—the idea of Mrs. Cooper lashing out physically was laughable—and he didn't appear to be overly concerned with the fact that he'd bloodied the rug. Rather, it seemed that he was afraid that he'd greatly disappointed Mrs. Cooper. Elle could almost imagine those big, sad green eyes in the face of a young child staring up at his mother after misbehaving. She watched as Finnian dropped his gaze to the floor and fidgeted uncomfortably. A small, tentative smile rose to her lips. Maybe Mrs. Cooper was right. Maybe the brothers really were as sweet as Elle had first thought them to be.

"Elle?"

She shrieked and scrambled backward, slamming herself against the wall and pressing a hand to her pounding heart. She looked at Gareth with wide eyes, once again struggling to get her breathing under control. He stared back at her, eyes equally wide.

"Sorry! Sorry," he apologized, stumbling away until his back was pressed against the opposite wall. He slid down it until he was seated on the floor. "I just—I'm sorry."

He licked his lips anxiously and looked as though he wanted to say more, but, after a few tense seconds, he merely shook his head and dropped his face into his hands. Feeling less threatened with some distance between them, Elle decided to sit as well. She slid down and made herself comfortable, leaning against the wall and hugging her knees to her chest. Once she was situated, Gareth peeked at her through his fingers and offered another apology. She sighed.

"It's okay," Elle told him. It really wasn't—this situation was _not_ okay and she was back to being scared out of her mind—but she didn't like seeing him upset. "Just don't sneak up on me, alright? You gave me a heart attack."

He pulled his hands away from his face and sat up straighter. "I'm sorry."

"I know. You said that already."

"No, no," Gareth said. He sighed and licked his lips again. Maybe it was a nervous habit. "I'm sorry for scaring you, for yelling, for ruining everything."

Elle frowned. "Okay, now _I'm_ sorry. I don't follow."

"You were alright earlier," Gareth explained. "The fighting had started and my brothers were throwing punches and screaming at each other, but you were alright. I removed you and Robert from the chaos and called for Mrs. Cooper to keep an eye on you. You looked nervous, but you didn't seem to be afraid. Then I…I started yelling, first in Welsh and then in English. When I recovered my senses and looked back at you, you were terrified. I can't help thinking that it's my fault."

"Oh."

It was true: she hadn't been afraid when the fighting had broken out, not at first. She had two older brothers and was familiar with how fraternal relationships worked. A little roughhousing was to be expected, especially in a family of five boys. She hadn't worried when Gareth had calmly taken her and Mr. Hall aside; she'd still felt perfectly safe. Then Wales, who she'd viewed as the sweetest and gentlest of the brothers, had started yelling. She hadn't understood what he was saying and that had only made it worse. She'd started to panic then, but the terror hadn't really set in until she'd seen all the blood. What kind of person was okay with beating his brother bloody? Elle closed her eyes, feeling slightly nauseous. She _really_ had to get out of here.

"It _is_ my fault, isn't it?"Gareth asked.

Elle wanted to comfort him, to lay his fears to rest, to say 'of course not, Gareth' because, despite everything that had happened, she knew he was a nice guy. She liked him, and that was why she couldn't lie to him.

"Not completely," she told him, looking up and forcing a smile.

Elle hugged her legs closer to her chest and let out a long, slow sigh. She could do this. She just had to wait for Arthur to get back. When he did, she'd tell him she wanted to leave. He'd promised to let her go, hadn't he? He'd promised to take her anywhere she wanted. _What if he was lying? _a small, terrified inner voice questioned. She chewed her lower lip nervously. Dishonesty was always a possibility, but Arthur seemed like such a gentleman. He wouldn't betray her like that…would he?

The sound of approaching voices had Elle on her feet in a matter of seconds. One was obviously Arthur, but the other—thank God!—was American. An American, a countryman, a kindred spirit in a world gone mad…Elle could hardly contain her excitement. She wondered briefly at the divergence from her norm. Ordinarily, she'd have given anything to sit down and talk with an Irishman, a Scotsman, an Englishman or a Welshman. Their accents were charming, entrancing, and beautiful; they could have been reading straight from a dictionary and she'd have been riveted. Now, though, she wanted nothing more than to latch onto her countryman and beg him to take her home. She'd had quite enough of being abroad, thank you very much, and would be more than happy to return to America, land of the free and home of the sane. She said 'sane' because, in America, people were rational and things made _sense_. In America, people were people and countries were countries. There was no intermixing or combining the two, except in the realm of fiction. She mentally prepared to explain to her countryman why leaving the UK House immediately was of the utmost importance; she thought 'we're standing in a room with a bunch of personified countries' ought to do the trick. However, when Arthur and the American finally entered the room, Elle found herself recoiling rather than rushing forward. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped because the American wasn't _just_ an American. He was America, the nation personified.

He was several inches taller than Arthur and quite a bit larger; his broad shoulders and muscular build made the other personified nations that Elle had met seem almost scrawny in comparison. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt and, over that, the brown leather bomber jacket that she recognized from _Hetalia. _ A pair of jeans hugged his narrow waist and hips and a rather large pair of Nikes covered his feet. He was laughing, causing his sky-blue eyes to crinkle at the corners and stretching his lips into a wide, toothy grin. A pair of silver-rimmed glasses—_Texas,_ Elle thought—rested on the bridge of his aquiline nose and a stubborn little cowlick—_Nantucket—_had separated itself from the rest of his golden-blonde hair. He was incredibly handsome—she was beginning to believe that all countries were—and could easily have been the star of any Hollywood film.

"Wow, you guys really did a number on this place," America observed. He stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips, taking in the destruction. "And on each other. Why?"

"I don't know, Alfred," Arthur muttered from his place at America's side. He sounded tired. "For the usual reasons, I suppose."

Alfred nodded sagely, "Because you're a control freak and everyone else got fed up with it."

"I am _not_ a control freak!" Arthur bristled, reddening with irritation.

"Yes you are!" Iagan grinned. "Isn't that right, lads?"

Eirnin nodded and said something that was probably a 'yes' before wincing and cradling his jaw.

"Absolutely!" Finnian laughed. He smiled at America. "Hello, Al! It's good to see you!"

"Finn, bro, what's up?" Alfred returned, grinning and holding his arms wide for a hug.

Finnian moved to embrace and properly greet his friend and adopted brother, but he was blocked by his four guards and a still-frowning Mrs. Cooper. He smiled apologetically and shrugged. Alfred returned the smile and started to drop his arms to his sides. He raised them again a moment later, turning toward Northern Ireland and calling his name with a grin. Eirnin's answering smile was weak and tentative, as though he wasn't quite sure if he _could_ smile. Then he said something…or, rather, he tried to. It sounded like he was speaking English, but the words were so mixed and garbled that Elle couldn't make sense of them. Apparently, neither could Alfred.

"Eir, we've been over this," America said. "You have to speak really clearly for me, okay? Sometimes your accent makes it sound like you're just saying a bunch of mumbo-jumbo. Finn remembered. Talk just like he did."

Eirnin scowled and spoke again. It was just as incomprehensible as his first attempt.

"Dude, seriously, what are you saying?" Alfred tilted his head and raised a brow, clearly lost.

This time, Eirnin yelled. It didn't make him any more intelligible and ended with him curled forward with his hands cupping his jaw.

"Do you know what he said?" Alfred questioned, appealing to the other nations for help.

Gareth, Iagan, and Arthur were just as confused as Alfred and it quickly became clear that only one person in the room had a chance of understanding Eirnin's distorted speech. All eyes turned to Finnian. He gazed back at them steadily, silently refusing their requests for him to translate. Apparently, he was still too angry with Eirnin to be doing him any favors. Elle watched curiously, wondering how it would all play out. After another minute, Finnian rolled his eyes and relented.

"Alright, first he said 'Hello, Alfred. When did you get here?' Then it was 'I _am_ speaking clearly, you idiot! Clean your ears out.' That last bit…well, I'd rather not explain it, not with ladies present."

"Oh! That's what he said?" Alfred grinned. He turned to Eirnin. "Hey, Eir! I just got here a few minutes ago. Why are you talking so weird today?"

Eirnin slapped a hand over his eyes and shook his head, not even attempting a verbal reply.

"I think that's probably my fault," Finnian shrugged. "I hit his jaw pretty hard earlier. It might be broken or dislocated or just really sore."

"Well, whatever the case may be, you'll have to translate for him until it heals," Arthur said.

Finnian started to protest, but one look from Mrs. Cooper silenced him. He sighed and nodded, reluctantly accepting his appointed task. The greetings continued. Alfred received a semi-cheerful hello from Wales, a bear hug from Scotland, and a peck on the cheek from Mrs. Cooper. Elle waited quietly through it all. Somewhere between America's entrance and his attempt to sweep Mrs. Cooper off her feet and carry her bridal-style, she realized that she wouldn't be leaving the UK House any time soon. The thought caused her chest to tighten with panic, but she forced herself to remain calm. _No one seems to be in the mood for fighting anymore. How bad could this be?_

"And, last but not least, Elle!" Alfred said, turning toward her. He had his arms spread wide—_damn, he really likes hugs_—and was walking in her direction. "You thought I forgot about you, huh? How could I? I came all this way just for you!"

How bad could this be?Answer: very bad. Elle sympathized with Alfred's desire to embrace everyone—she was normally a pretty huggy person herself—but the thought of touching anyone was currently twisting her stomach into knots. She crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head emphatically, trying to clearly convey that she did not want a hug. She would have said something as well, but she was so frightened that her throat had tightened and her voice was refusing to work. The thought of running crossed her mind, but her knees had locked up and refused to move. It was pointless, anyway. America was heading straight for her. There was no time to go anywhere.

"Alfred, stop it. You're scaring her," Arthur said. Elle shot him a grateful look.

"Quiet, dude. I know what I'm doing."

"What? You most certainly do not! Look at her. She's completely terrified!"

Alfred might have given a very witty reply—Elle would never know. What she _would_ know, what she would remember for the rest of her life, was the weight of his large hands as they gently landed on her shoulders and pulled her forward. She was pressed tenderly to his chest and encircled by his arms; half a second later, he rested his cheek on top of her head. He held her carefully, like she was precious and in danger of shattering, but firmly, like she was cared for and wanted. Elle initially struggled against him, but she quickly found herself melting into the embrace. As soon as she relaxed in his arms, she felt a deep, aching fatigue, then a fierce desire to protect the world and everyone in it, then a burst of self-doubt. A few thoughts followed the third sensation. _Am I still the strongest? Am I still loved? Can I still be the hero? Do they still __**want**__ me to be the hero? _A swell of confidence suddenly eradicated the negativity and she was once again certain that she could save everyone in every nation on Earth. Alfred squeezed her tightly and kissed the top of her head. Elle felt the final surge of confidence fade and, as Alfred released her, another pleasant feeling rose to take its place. She felt happy, really and truly happy, and extremely safe. America backed up a few steps and she smiled at him, completely forgetting that she was supposed to be afraid.

"See, dude? Problem solved," Alfred said, turning to Arthur. "She's not freaking out anymore. If you're going to help people, sometimes you need to ignore everything they're saying and doing and just _help_. That's what being the hero is all about!"

Arthur snorted, "Yes, well, I suppose I've learned something valuable today: American foreign policy—i.e. ignoring what others say and determinedly 'helping'—can be applied in cases concerning distraught young women. I'll have to try it in the future."

"Really?" Alfred asked, clearly excited by the thought that Arthur might take advice from him.

"What do you think?" Arthur frowned. It couldn't be mistaken for anything but a 'no.'

Alfred shrugged and turned back to Elle. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yeah, much. Thanks," she replied. She wasn't scared or even nervous, just curious. "What did you do?"

"Hugged you," Alfred replied as if it was the simplest thing in the world. "And, by the way, _that's_ what it feels like to be the Country Keeper. Arthur mentioned that you touched his hand at some point, but you only felt what he was feeling, am I right? That's because he's accepted you as his Keeper, but your relationship is pretty new. I, on the other hand, have known you your whole life. You're one of my people, so we already had a strong bond when I accepted you as my Keeper. That bond just needed acceptance from you to work like a fully-developed Country-to-Keeper connection. It's like a give-and-take sort of thing. You feel what I'm feeling, I feel what you're feeling, all the bad stuff goes away, and we're both pretty happy in the end."

Elle blinked, not fully understanding. "A give-and-take? I thought the Country Keeper was just supposed to take care of you."

"And get nothing back?" Alfred asked. At Elle's shrug, he looked at Arthur. "Dude, you suck at explaining things!"

"I—I haven't had _time_ to properly explain!" Arthur protested.

"Whatever," Alfred muttered, waving him off. He turned back to Elle. "Yeah, you take care of us, but we take care of you, too. We feed you and buy you things and give you lots of awesome places to live. Plus, after you help us work through our issues by giving us hugs or talking to us or whatever, you feel just as good as we do. Country Keeping's a pretty cool job. You have, like, magical powers to help us get rid of stress and stuff. And when you get _really_ good at it, you can do Jedi mind tricks!"

Elle stared at him bewilderedly.

"You can project thoughts and emotions," Arthur explained, shooting a glare in Alfred's direction. "For example, if I was upset about something, you could think calming or happy thoughts—yes, I know it sounds cliché—and send them in my direction to alter my mood. It's a sort of telepathy, I suppose. Albrecht used it quite frequently."

"See?" Alfred beamed. "Jedi mind tricks!"

The explanation half-answered one question and raised about a thousand more, but Elle felt that now was not the time to ask them. Still on a weird high from hugging Alfred, she turned to Arthur.

"I need to talk to you," Elle said.

He frowned, but nodded his understanding. He had just opened his mouth, presumably to begin the conversation, when Mrs. Cooper bustled over.

"Wait just a minute, please," the woman said, patting Arthur's shoulder. She turned to Elle. "It's wonderful to see you smiling again, dear. I wonder, would you mind if we got the boys cleaned up before you have your little chat?"

Elle shook her head, "No, that'd be fine."

"Oh, good," Mrs. Cooper smiled. "America dear, you can take care of England, can't you?"

"Of course!" Alfred grinned. Arthur scowled and glared daggers at him.

Mrs. Cooper shepherded everyone into the kitchen. Elle was taken aside by one of the UK House employees and directed toward the breakfast nook where a steaming mug of hot chocolate sat waiting for her. When she asked the employee about it, the man explained that America had instructed him to prepare the hot drink. Elle looked at her country. He was standing near the sink and tending to Arthur's wounds, smiling all the while. He winked at Elle when he caught her staring and tilted his head toward her mug, indicating that she should take a drink. She smirked and did as he'd silently suggested. It was perfect. She took another sip, quietly observing the other occupants of the room.

Mrs. Cooper had taken it upon herself to care for Scotland. His nose was swollen and purple-black now, as was the skin around both of his eyes. The bleeding had mostly stopped and the handkerchief had been cast aside, freeing Iagan to hold an ice pack to his nose while Mrs. Cooper wiped drying tracks of red from his face. He sat stoically through her ministrations, barely flinching as the washcloth swiped across bruised and tender skin. With everyone else otherwise engaged, the task of caring for Ireland had fallen to Wales. Gareth had managed to get his brothers to sit side by side on the countertop and, so far, they hadn't tried to kill each other. He'd quickly but gently run his hands along Eirnin's jaw—it had been ruled badly bruised, not dislocated or broken—before turning to Finnian and concerning himself with the gash on the Republic's forehead. It still hadn't stopped bleeding.

As she watched all of the activity, Elle found herself wondering if she could really forget the UK House and the countries that inhabited it. Earlier, she'd been so scared that leaving had seemed the only rational thing to do, but she was calmer now and she found herself reconsidering. If she said no to being the Country Keeper, what did she have to go back to? Her family, sure, and all of her friends, but beyond that? Not much. She'd have two more years of college, then a job—if she could find one in the current economy—and then a mediocre life based on order, structure, and routine. She'd be just another face in the crowd, an Average Jane in a sea of hundreds of thousands of other nameless, faceless people. She'd be a nobody. It was kind of depressing to think about, but it didn't have to be. What she had here—what Arthur had practically handed to her—was the opportunity of a lifetime. It was exciting, it was new. Things like this _never_ happened to her.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? Elle was as ordinary as ordinary could be. She'd lived in the same house on the same street in the same city all her life. She'd had an average childhood and a typical adolescence, nothing odd or unusual at all. How was she supposed to react in this situation? What was she supposed to do with the knowledge that countries were people—very, very _attractive_ people—who lived and loved and dreamed and fought just like everyone else on the planet? To think that these people—these _countries_—wanted her, needed her…it was too much. How was she supposed to help them? She didn't know anything about being a Country Keeper. She didn't even fully understand what the title meant.

_You can learn,_ a small, quiet inner voice asserted. Elle considered it. She had always been a fast learner, but in order to learn, she needed to be provided with information. Arthur had already kept several things from her and although Gareth had tried to fill her in, she got the feeling that she wouldn't understand everything for quite some time. Could she live with that? Could she continue blindly down this path she'd chosen on a whim just a few hours earlier in Trafalgar Square? _Don't be an idiot,_ she told herself. _Think it through._ It wasn't all that difficult. What she _should_ do was obvious enough. She _should_ get the hell out of this place and return to her professors and peers. They'd be heading back to the States in a couple of days and, if she had any hope of things ever getting back to normal, she had damned well better be on that plane. There was a difference between what she _should_ do and what she _would_ do, however, and, ridiculous as it was, Elle didn't believe that she would be on that D.C.-bound flight in two days time. Instead, she imagined that she'd be right where she currently was: still confused, still uncertain, and still in the UK House.

It made sense, really, in a what-am-I-doing, holy-hell-I'm-totally-crazy sort of way. She had always been jealous of the heroes and heroines in movies and books; she'd always envied their epic voyages and the excitement they'd experienced. _Why can't my life be like that? _she'd often wondered. The sensible answer was that epic quests and grand adventures only happened in works of fiction, but Elle didn't have to be sensible anymore. She was in a room with six personified countries. Sensibility had gone right out the window.

"Screw it," Elle muttered, downing the rest of her hot chocolate like a shot of tequila.

She could stay where she was and mentally debate the issue forever, but the fact remained that she was simply too curious to turn back now. She couldn't just leave and spend the rest of her life not knowing what might have been. Besides, if things didn't work out, she could always go back to the life she had known. 'Normal' would always be there waiting for her. Decision (more or less) made, Elle abandoned the breakfast nook and looked for a way to make herself useful.

Her opportunity lay across the kitchen with Gareth, who was prepping a needle and thread, and his two Irish brothers. Gareth was squinting and frowning and biting his lower lip, completely focused on his task. Finnian and Eirnin, meanwhile, were each doing their best to pretend the other didn't exist. They were glaring off in separate directions and wearing frowns that were dangerously close to pouts. _They're like children, _Elle thought. And they were clearly a handful. Wales would probably welcome her assistance.

"Can I help?" Elle asked, tamping down the fear that was attempting to reassert itself.

"You want to?" Gareth asked, looking at her with wide eyes and raised brows. He sounded surprised and a little skeptical, but, at Elle's nod, he tilted his head toward Eirnin. "Clean him up and get some ice for his jaw and his eye. I suppose he could have done it himself, but I don't like letting any of my brothers wander around after a fight. I never know what mischief they might get up to."

Elle nodded, accepting responsibility for Northern Ireland. As long as she thought of him as the cheerful young man who'd told her hilarious stories and not as the maniac who'd dragged his brother backward across a table, everything would be just fine. She looked at Finnian, who was still holding a bloodstained cloth to his forehead.

"Does he need stitches?" Elle wondered.

"Unfortunately," Gareth confirmed. He moved Finnian's hand aside and pulled back the bloodied handkerchief so that he could inspect his brother's injury. "Just a few, though. I should be finished fairly quickly."

Elle shuddered. She'd never had stitches before, but the thought of a needle and thread pulling through skin unnerved her. Determined to ignore the process, she shifted her focus to Eirnin. He gave her a lopsided smile—_still a charmer, even when injured_, Elle thought—and sat patiently while she gave him a quick once-over. Thanks to Finnian's undoubtedly powerful right hooks, the damage was mostly concentrated to the left half of Eirnin's face: his left eye was purple-black and swollen shut and the left side of his jaw featured mottled bruising in every color of the rainbow. There was random damage, too—scattered scrapes and bruises littered practically every visible inch of Eirnin's fair, freckled skin—but it ranked lower than the facial injuries on Elle's mental checklist. _So, ice packs and something to clean the blood with, _she thought. _Easy. _A quick search and some direction from Gareth got Elle the supplies she needed.

"Here," Elle said, handing Eirnin a towel filled with ice. "Hold this to your eye while I get the blood off your face. Then we'll get some ice on your jaw, too."

Eirnin nodded agreeably and pressed the ice pack to the blue-black skin around his eye. Then, using a basin of water and a washcloth, Elle began to clean the blood away. There really wasn't much of it: a few streaks here and there from shallow cuts caused by clawing fingernails, a tiny stream from a bitten lower lip, and half a dozen drying red splatters that really belonged to Finnian.

"You have a scar," Elle observed as she wiped a smear of blood from Eirnin's cheek. It was thin and faint and white—just a few shades lighter than his skin—and slanted from his cheekbone down to the corner of his lips. "I didn't notice it earlier. How did you get it?"

A light little chuckle burbled in his throat as he gave her another lopsided smile. He opened his mouth slightly, but did not attempt to reply. Instead, he showed her his bitten, swollen tongue and gestured apologetically to his bruised jaw.

"Oh, right. You can't speak," Elle said, feeling her face redden. "Never mind. It was a stupid question."

Eirnin shook his head and patted her shoulder. He gestured to the scar and then to his partially-open mouth, miming the expulsion of something. Elle took that to mean that he'd tell her the story another day. She smiled and turned back to her work.

The last of the blood was one long, thin line that had slid down Eirnin's neck and dried along his collarbone. It came off easily enough and Elle found her attention drifting. She could hear Arthur speaking, saying that he had been taken care of and was now 'just fine, thank you'. Fine enough, apparently, to return to the 'mountains of paperwork' that awaited him in his office. It didn't sound as though Alfred liked that idea at all. He started listing reasons why Arthur just _couldn't_ leave—'We have to eat popcorn and watch a movie and swap scary stories. It's sleepover tradition, man!'—but England hardly seemed convinced. Elle smiled and shook her head. She had no idea what her country was talking about.

As Elle gently scrubbed the remaining blood from Eirnin's collarbone and shoulder, her fingers brushed against something odd. Her mind suddenly snapped back to her task and, frowning, she pushed the collar of Eirnin's shirt down. She immediately clamped down on her lower lip to keep from shrieking in disgust. _What the hell is __**that**__! _A few seconds passed before her mind was able to process that she was looking at another scar. This one was much bigger and uglier than the one on Eirnin's cheek. Jagged, raised, and knotted, it started on his left shoulder and disappeared under his shirt. Elle found herself wondering just how much of his chest it covered. She dragged her eyes up to meet Eirnin's. He was shaking his head and silently begging her to forget what she'd just seen. She couldn't.

"What _is_ that? How did you get it?" Elle asked—no, demanded. She wondered with sudden horror if one of his brothers had done it to him. "How did you get that scar?"

"What scar?" Iagan asked, smoothly inserting himself into the conversation.

Elle looked at him. Despite his black eyes and the gauze and medical tape surrounding his nose, he was grinning. With a laugh and a good-natured slap to Eirnin's thigh, Iagan hopped up onto the counter and sat beside his brother. He looked at Elle expectantly.

"Well?" Scotland prompted, raising his brows. "What scar?"

"This one," Elle said, pointing to the monstrosity she'd uncovered. It made her sick to imagine what it must have looked like as a fresh wound. "How did he get it? Who did it to him?"

Iagan's expression shifted at her tone. "Hang on. Are you accusing me of something?"

Elle's eyes widened and she swallowed hard. She had been, actually. In her mind, she'd been accusing each of Eirnin's brothers of giving him that terrible scar. The thunderous look on Scotland's face had her abandoning that line of thinking.

"Are you suggesting that _I_ did it?" Iagan demanded. He growled furiously and shoved his hands through his hair. "And if not me, then one of my brothers? Do you honestly think that _any_ of us would do that to him? That wound was opened and reopened without thought for Eirnin's comfort or sanity. It bled for years—_he_ bled for years—and it was agony, torture! How…how _dare_ you accuse me of putting him through that?"

"I-I'm sorry," Elle stammered. She was beginning to feel panicked again, but Alfred's hand suddenly curled around her shoulder and her nerves settled. She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"You didn't know," Iagan scoffed. "Predictable. Alfred, teach your people some history, would you?"

"What do you mean?" Elle asked. She looked at Alfred. "What does he mean?"

"Have you ever heard of the Troubles?" America asked. It wasn't a direct answer, but Elle knew what her nation was talking about and, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, she guessed where his explanation was heading. "Eirnin's brothers didn't give him that scar. His people did."

"Just about tore him apart," Iagan growled, a dangerous, murderous gleam in his eyes.

"It was awful," Gareth said softly. He finished taping gauze over the freshly-stitched wound on Finnian's forehead and glanced at Arthur, who was standing at Alfred's side. "It's not something that any of us recall with any sort of fondness."

"Only because the wrong side came out on top," Finnian muttered.

The comment was barely audible and had probably not been meant for the others to hear, but they _had_ heard, and the reaction was immediate. The air seemed to go out of the room and, as the others stood mentally digesting the statement, Arthur rushed forward, twisted his hands in Finnian's shirtfront, and slammed his brother's head against the cabinets behind him.

"Listen to me, you horrible brat," Arthur hissed. "You can talk all you like about your little plans for a unified Ireland—that's fine, I don't mind a little fantasy. What I _do_ mind is you talking about a piece of our history like it was some sort of _game_. There was no winner, no one 'came out on top.' The conflict simply—mostly—ended. Don't be so disrespectful. It's disgusting."

"_You're_ disgusting," Finnian spat, wincing as the volume of his own voice shoved a spike of pain through his skull. "Pushing me around like I'm nothing, calling me names, controlling Eir like he's some sort of puppet. I hate it! I hate _you_! I don't even know why I come here."

"To visit Eirnin, I'd imagine," Arthur returned. He grinned wickedly at his brother. "After all, he did choose me in the end."

Finnian roared angrily and reached out to wrap his hands around Arthur's throat, but Eirnin grabbed him and held him back. At the same moment, Gareth grabbed Arthur and pulled him away while Alfred grabbed Iagan, who'd been about to leap into the fight.

"Alright, that's enough!" Gareth shouted. His face was red with anger; he had no patience left to spare. "You," he said to Arthur, shoving the blonde toward the hallway. "Get out of here. Take a walk, do some work—I don't care. And you," he said, turning to Scotland, "go to your room. No arguing! And _you_," he spun toward Finnian, "Don't. Say. Anything. Not another word, understand? And don't move! Any more trouble out of you and I'll be shipping you back home. _Tonight_."

While Wales dealt with his brothers, Alfred led Elle into the living room. She was less shaken by the fighting this time, and she figured that was a good thing. It seemed that the brothers simply couldn't get along with each other. If that was the case, she'd have to be prepared for much more of this in the future. Still, something was nagging at her conscience.

"I think it's my fault," she confided.

"What is?" Alfred asked. He was digging through a duffle bag that had been left in a corner of the room.

"The fighting," Elle replied with a shrug. "I said something at dinner that set them off, and then I brought up the scar."

"Well, they probably would have found something to fight about even if you hadn't said anything," Alfred told her, "but I think you're right: you did get them started. Don't look so guilty! I've done it lots of times, too. That's why I have this."

"A book?" Elle asked, taking the proffered object. It was a simple black, leather-bound journal. She flipped through it quickly. "What's it for?"

"To remind me of all the stuff that sets them off," America said, jerking his thumb toward the kitchen. "I hate coming over here and accidentally stirring up fights, so I made myself write down everything that I've said in the past to make them angry. That way, I don't repeat the same mistake twice."

"That's useful," Elle said, handing the book back to Alfred. He shook his head.

"Nah, you keep it. I've got all that stuff stored in my noggin now," Alfred told her, tapping his forehead. "Study that, and you won't be causing any more fights between them any time soon."

"Thanks," Elle smiled. She rocked back on her heels and looked around the room. "So, what now?"

"We'll wait an hour or so, just to give the guys some time to cool off," Alfred said, flopping down on one of the sofas. "Then we'll call them in here so we can all watch a movie! This is a slumber party. We should be having fun and celebrating the fact that you're going to be our new Keeper!"

"You don't have to...wait," Elle said, leveling America with a skeptical look. "Last anyone heard, I was planning on leaving. How did you know I decided to stay?"

"Well, you _haven't_ decided to stay," Alfred said with a small frown. "Not really, anyway. You haven't one hundred percent, totally for sure, absolutely, definitely, no doubts, no questions decided. But you'll stay. You will. I know you will."

"How can you be so sure?" Elle asked. _She_ wasn't even entirely sure what she would decide, in the end.

Alfred shrugged. "The same way I knew that hot chocolate is your go-to comfort drink. I'm your country, Elle. I know you."

"Yeah," Elle chuckled, plopping down beside him, "that's going to take some getting used to."

They spent the next forty-five minutes in pleasant conversation, undisturbed by anyone but Mrs. Cooper, who brought them snacks at the twenty minute mark. In between bites, Alfred asked all sorts of questions. Was Elle enjoying England? Had her visit been made more or less enjoyable when she'd met Arthur, the nation personified? How much had she been told about Keeping? Elle answered each question to the best of her ability, but some were more difficult than others. She didn't know how to quantify what little she had been told about becoming the Country Keeper—she still wasn't entirely sure that she understood what the term actually _meant_—and as for the question about Arthur…well, that was complicated. He was handsome and gracious and she could see in his eyes that he was capable of great friendliness and warmth, but there was a wall between Open and Amicable Arthur and the rest of the world. She wondered why it was there. Was he naturally standoffish or had his reserved tendencies developed over time, perhaps as the result of bad relationships and betrayals? She'd noticed that he hadn't directly asked if she planned to stay on as Keeper. Maybe he was afraid of the answer.

Alfred was a foil to Arthur, a contrast so stark and vivid it made Elle's head spin. Alfred was as loud as he was friendly. He smiled readily, laughed often, and gesticulated grandly when he spoke. He was physically affectionate and unafraid to hug others, even people he barely knew. He had poor table manners, as Elle discovered when he asked questions with his mouth full of food, but he was so happy and enthusiastic that it was difficult to fault him for it. Alfred was lovable—there was simply no other word for it—in an undeniable, exuberant, and endearingly oafish way. While Arthur was a person Elle would have to get to know before reaching a decisive verdict, Alfred was someone she instinctively liked and implicitly trusted. She wondered if those feelings were a result of his magnetic personality or the fact that he was her home nation.

When Alfred ruled that enough time had passed, he and Elle set about gathering the Dysfunctional Brothers of Great Britain and Ireland—she giggled at the term Alfred provided—for a movie. Arthur, who had 'far too much work to do', refused to leave his office, but his brothers were convinced with relative ease. They gathered in the living room, bowls of popcorn in hand, and tried to figure out a decent seating arrangement. As guests, Elle and Alfred were given one of the sofas to share. They tried to protest, knowing that such a concession made a peaceful arrangement infinitely more difficult to achieve, but the other nations were insistent. In the end, Gareth and Iagan took the other sofa while Finnian and Eirnin sprawled out on the floor with a wall of pillows between them. Elle hoped the meager barrier would be enough to keep them from fighting.

The movie passed without incident. Elle nodded off once or twice; she recalled jerking awake to onscreen explosions and machine gun fire. When she opened her eyes to a catchy song and rolling end credits, Elle yawned and sat up, trying to remember exactly where she was. That was easy enough: she was still in the UK House, seated on one of the living room sofas with a snoring Alfred beside her. Finnian and Eirnin were asleep as well. They'd both rolled closer to the wall of pillows and had pressed themselves right up against it so that the cushions were the only things keeping them apart. A drowsy Gareth was tending to his brothers, nudging them until they shifted into less painful-looking positions and tucking blankets around them and smoothing the hair from their foreheads with a soft smile.

"Hellions by day, angels by night," Gareth murmured, glancing at Elle.

She grinned tiredly, agreeing. They did look rather angelic.

"Are they sleeping here tonight?" Elle asked quietly.

Gareth smiled. "Yes. Waking them is never a good idea unless you don't mind losing a limb, and I refuse to carry them up to their beds. They can sleep on the floor for one night."

"What about Alfred?"

"He'll stay here, too," Gareth said. "It'll be just like that slumber party he kept going on about. I'll see if I can get him to lie down and stretch out, but I won't try to get him upstairs."

Elle nodded. Alfred was sleeping solidly and looked dead to the world. He wasn't going anywhere.

"Where do I sleep?" Elle wondered, finally coming to the question that had been weighing most heavily on her mind.

"In one of the guest rooms," Gareth replied. He straightened, wincing as his back cracked loudly. "Find Iagan. He'll show you."

Iagan. The name made Elle stomach flip. He'd been so angry earlier, so furious that she'd accused him of giving Eirnin that horrible scar. She didn't want to see that look on his face ever again, but if she _did_ see it, she hoped that it would at least not be directed at her. Scotland—witty, handsome, rugged-as-hell Scotland—had looked positively murderous; if not for the solid strength of Alfred at her back, Elle would have burst into tears. She swallowed nervously, wanting Gareth to show her to her room but unwilling to say so aloud.

"Okay," she finally said, getting to her feet. "Goodnight."

Gareth returned the sentiment as Elle walked away. She passed through the darkened kitchen and wandered down the dimly-lit hallway, one hand on the wall as a guide. She soon found herself in a large foyer. Elle stood for a moment in wide-eyed wonder, staring at the crystal chandelier that hung above the pristine marble floor and wondering why Arthur hadn't shown her this place earlier. The hushed rumblings of a male voice pulled her from her gawking and, realizing that the voice belonged to Iagan, Elle followed it into the next room.

A single lamp provided the weak light by which she was able to distinguish Iagan, face bruised and swollen and half-hidden in shadows, standing in front of a couch and staring down at it. _What's he doing?_ she wondered, trying to get a good look at his expression. She spied a tuft of blonde hair—_Arthur?—_peeking around the edge of the sofa and an oddly-shaped bundle—_pillow, maybe_—in Iagan's arms. Elle's mind immediately leapt to an awful conclusion: perhaps Scotland intended to smother his brother to death. They really hadn't been getting along earlier, but was Iagan actually prepared to commit fratricide? It was a horrifying thought.

"Iagan?" Elle whispered.

His gaze snapped up to meet hers and his posture suddenly stiffened; he looked, for all intents and purposes, like a criminal caught in the act. Frowning, Elle walked farther into the room. She could now see that Arthur was lying on the couch. He was flat on his back with his hands folded neatly across his abdomen, looking very dignified indeed if one could ignore his partially-open mouth and the line of drool leaking from it. His tie had been removed and laid out nearby; the top buttons of his dress shirt had been undone so that sleep would be more comfortable. Elle looked at Iagan, who was shaking out his bundle—_a blanket_, she realized with a relieved smile—and glancing between her and his sleeping brother.

"I know I'm supposed to be mad at him, but I couldn't just…" Iagan sighed quietly, looking embarrassed. "Don't say anything, alright?"

Elle hid her grin and nodded. Iagan wasn't trying to murder his brother, he was simply caring for him. She immediately felt guilty for her mistake. She watched as Iagan laid the blanket atop his brother and carefully tucked it around him. Arthur mumbled something and shifted, looking as though he might wake. It was a problem quickly remedied by Scotland's gentle shushing and quietly murmured words.

"He always looks so unhappy," Iagan said, rubbing the frown lines from Arthur's forehead with a careful thumb. "Even when he's asleep. I think that, lately, it's been mostly my fault and I'm sorry for it." He looked at Elle, eyes serious. "Don't tell him I said that."

"Your secret's safe with me," she promised.

He smiled and stepped away from the sofa. "Did you need something?"

"Oh, um, yeah," Elle said. She blushed, realizing that she hadn't given any explanation for barging in. "Gareth sent me. He said you'd take me to my room."

"And so I will," Iagan nodded. He skirted around a coffee table and hoisted a suitcase onto his shoulder. "This is yours, isn't it?"

Elle gaped at the polka-dotted bag. "Yes, but—"

"And the carryon as well?" Scotland asked, picking up a smaller bag made of the same fabric.

"Yeah," she nodded. "How—?"

"I imagine Mr. Workaholic," Iagan tilted his head to indicate his sleeping brother, "sent for them. He must have collected them at the door when they arrived, brought them in here, decided to lie down—'just for a moment', no doubt—and fallen asleep." He readjusted his grip on her luggage. "I'll carry them upstairs for you."

He walked past her, bearing her rather heavy suitcase and carryon as though they were nothing. Elle followed him.

"I want to apologize for shouting at you earlier," Iagan said as they crossed the foyer. "You didn't know how Eirnin got that scar—how could you have?—and it was wrong of me to react the way I did. I'm sorry."

"Oh," Elle said, feeling even guiltier. Iagan wasn't cruel or frightening, he'd simply been upset. "It's okay."

"You have to understand what that scar means," Iagan insisted. They were on the stairs now. "I won't tell you the whole story tonight; it's enough to know that the situation was a bad one. There was so much violence that it sometimes spilled right over Eirnin's borders and into Finnian's and Arthur's. You can imagine how it affected them. Eirnin's our brother so, naturally, we all wanted to help him, but Arthur and Finnian were especially dedicated. They came to see the conflict as a situation in which something could be lost or gained."

"Some_thing_ or some_one_?" Elle asked.

"You're on to something with that," Iagan told her. He didn't elaborate, however.

When they reached the top of the stairs, there were two options: go left or go right. To the right, Iagan explained, lay the five bedrooms that he and his brothers occupied. If Elle needed anything during the night, she was to knock on either Gareth's or Iagan's door, which would be identified by the Welsh Flag and the Scottish Flag, respectively. To the left lay the guest bedrooms, and it was in that direction that Iagan directed her.

"Some of these have been claimed already," Iagan said, pointing out the miniature flags that had been affixed to certain doors. "That's America's room, there's India's room, this one is France's room, over there is Spain's room…there are a few others. They're all regulars here at the UK House. This room is free, though. It can be yours."

He opened the door and led her into a pleasant little room with a rug-covered wood floor and floral wallpaper. It contained a double bed with a light pink duvet, a dresser with a matching mirror, and a small writing desk. There were two partially open doors in the room. One led to a little closet while the other led to an en-suite bathroom. Elle looked around and smiled. It was cute, homey, and smelled of roses. She liked it immediately.

"Will this suit you?" Iagan asked, setting her luggage down near the desk.

"Yeah," Elle grinned. "It's perfect."

"That's good to hear," Iagan smiled.

She expected him to leave then, but he surprised her by sitting down on the bed and folding his hands in his lap. He looked like a sinner preparing to confess.

"I…I don't hate him, you know," Iagan began, staring at his interlaced fingers. "Arthur, that is. I know it must seem like I do, but I don't. None of us hate him—not even Finn, no matter what he says. Arthur can be annoying and controlling—even outright cruel, if he chooses—but he's our brother and we love him." He shook his head and looked at her with a helpless smile. "God help us, but we love him."

It was good to hear. After seeing the brothers argue and fight as they had, Elle had half-believed that they didn't care about each other. She was relieved to be proven wrong.

"He doesn't see it," Iagan continued. He sounded frustrated. "I know he doesn't. It's why he acts the way he does, why he wants to control us so badly. He's afraid we'll leave him." Iagan snorted and shook his head. "Would you listen to me, talking like this when I'm actually _trying_ to leave him? And I'm not saying I don't want to do it—my people want it, so I want it, simple as that—but I wish I wasn't being so…belligerent about it. I try not to be, but holding it back just makes everything worse. Arthur doesn't understand that I'm trying—I really am _trying_—but I can't stay in control. It would all be so much easier with a Keeper."

Elle stiffened. This conversation was heading into dangerous territory.

"Elle, how sure are you that you're going to stay with us?" Iagan asked, looking at her with serious eyes. "Don't worry about the election. If you run, you'll win. I guarantee it. Just…how sure are you that, when all's said and done, you'll stay here as the Country Keeper?"

She shifted uncomfortably. "Um, pretty sure?"

"Not good enough," Iagan frowned.

"Really pretty sure?" Elle tried.

"No!" Iagan shouted, shooting to his feet. He began pacing, pulling at his hair in frustration. "No, you have to be absolutely certain! Decide, now, please!" He was desperate, close to sobbing. "_Please_! I can't do this anymore—I can't fight it, can't control it. They're winning, Elle. I think I'm losing my mind! I love my people—you've no _idea_ how much I love them—but they're always there, whispering to me. I can hear them talking, I know what they want, and it pushes and pushes and pushes me until I do something about it, until I hurl something down the stairs or break something apart or land a few solid punches on England's smug little face! I _need_ you to be the Keeper. I need you to decide _right_ _now_. I'll accept you right here, right this very moment, and it'll be over. My people will still speak, but they won't be in control. Please. I'm not sure how much longer I can take this."

"I…" Elle looked at him with wide eyes, completely taken aback. Iagan sounded desperate. He was falling to pieces in front of her and she didn't know what to do. She wanted to comply with his wishes, to say 'sure, no problem, I'll be the Country Keeper', but that would be lying, because it _was_ a problem. She really wasn't sure if she would stick around forever, and the fact that Iagan needed her to promise that she would was a little unnerving. Arthur and Alfred had accepted her without a problem—no promises needed, no strings attached. She wondered why they had done it so easily while Iagan was clearly struggling. "Iagan, I…I can't. I can't make a promise like that because I just don't know. I don't know if I'll be the Country Keeper; I don't know if I _want_ to. I'm sorry."

"D-don't be," Iagan forced out through gritted teeth. He was shaking. "_I'm_ sorry. I shouldn't…shouldn't have done that, pushed you, made you feel like you have to do it. Y-you don't, obviously. It's your choice. I just…I can't accept you as my Keeper if you're planning on leaving. I wouldn't survive the detachment process—not mentally, anyway." He tapped his forehead and smiled at her. He suddenly seemed to have gotten himself back under control. "I'll leave you to get settled in."

"Okay, thanks," Elle said, watching him carefully. He seemed perfectly fine. It was surreal. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Iagan returned easily. _So weird, _Elle thought. "Sleep well. I'll see you in the morning."

Then he left, closing the door behind himself. Elle stood where she was for a few moments, puzzling over what had happened. _Detachment process? What does he mean 'detachment process?'_ She had so many questions and absolutely no answers. _As usual_. Deciding to label Iagan's behavior a big, crazy mood swing, Elle abandoned her attempts to psychoanalyze him and turned instead to her suitcase. She unzipped the bag and dug through layers of shirts and pants and dresses until she found a little purple book. She then sat down at the desk and grabbed a pen.

_Dear Diary, _she wrote, _you'll never believe what happened to me today…_

* * *

><p><strong>So there you have it! We're moving right along.<strong>

**Next Chapter: Ace Reporter Francis Bonnefoy of _The International Gazette_ arrives at the UK House to interview the newest candidate for Country Keeper.**


End file.
